


Nightingale's Requiem, Fifth Novel in Nightingale's Odyssey Series

by ShadowcrestNightingale



Series: Nightingale's Odyssey [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: F/M, Hidden Pasts, Historical Manhattan, Murder, Mystery, POV Multiple, Revenge, Skeletons In The Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-03-31 08:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13970988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowcrestNightingale/pseuds/ShadowcrestNightingale
Summary: When Erik is found on the dueling knoll shot in the back, Charles suspects foul play. Haunted by the ghosts of his father’s past, the family must chase down the untied threads of Erik’s by-gone rise to power.As the world crumbles around him young Charles never stopped to ponder the question, what would he do when faced with the mastermind behind the plot to kill his father? In the devastating wake he finds no solace in words of wisdom. Only an insatiable thirst for justice.





	1. Chapter One

_**Chapter 1** _

_ **** _

_**Manhattan 1907** _

_**~Erik~** _

 

How many years had it been since I had carved this frieze? Good heavens, had it really been sixteen years since Carnegie Hall had been erected? My knees trembled as the ladder shifted beneath me and an old complaint sent a spike of pain up my leg. A curse left my lips before I had the chance to stop it.

 

“Be careful up there, Erik!” Damrosch called from the cobblestones below. “For God's sake, it would be quite a fall. And you shouldn't be up there in the first place.”

 

I gripped the stone and leaned until I felt the ladder stabilize again. I hated this state called _aging_. I swore nothing was worse then time catching up like a speeding freight train. “It is only slightly more than a single story. I assure you, I am perfectly capable of standing on a ladder, my dear Damrosch.”

 

“Christine told me you had quite a tumble when you were checking on Reed's conservatory a week ago.” He grasped the ladder and held it firm.

 

“The bruising healed swiftly enough so when I attended last night's concert no one was the wiser. The crowd was more than content to chatter on about how Charles is outshining his father on the stage.” I glanced down to catch the director grinning up at me. “Besides, my lovely and over-protective wife is away from town at the Hartford Music festival for the rest of the week. I must take advantage of not being tended to like I am child in need of a dutiful governess.”

 

“Don't begrudge Charles his talent. The boy is a virtuoso on the flute.”

 

I laughed as I ran my finger over a bit of crumbling stone. “Begrudge him? Hardly. I am aware I am quite past my prime. If anything, I am rather pleased that the public is lauding his unique talents. I have had my time in the limelight. I would gladly bow out of it to leave my son in the place he has earned.”

 

“As for Christine,” his voice dropped as he looked away, “I must say that she only is looking out for you. You are retired, Erik. You shouldn't be climbing ladders anymore. This is the work of … ”

 

“Oh hush.” I narrowed my eyes. This little patch needed a bit of rework for preservation. But otherwise, the facade was holding up nicely. “It is not like I am up on scaffolding carving the stones as I did under Carnegie's commission. I am simply assessing how time is treating her.” The twinge struck again and my grip tightened on the ledge. I inhaled sharply, catching my breath. Time had not been so kind to me. But I didn't dare utter a word to Christine about how much more I depended on my cane. She would wrap me in a comforter and install me on the couch in my study for the remainder of my days.

 

“Erik? Are you alright?”

 

“Fine.” I forced a smile I hoped he caught beneath the edge of my mask. “I am fine. I just found some stone I must tell Grimaudo about, it needs redressing. Nothing serious. In essence, Carnegie Hall is holding up splendidly.”

 

Every time I glanced down as I took a step to the next rung I saw him holding the shaking ladder and muttering, “Take your time.”

 

I set foot on the cobblestones and kept one hand on the ladder. The twinge in my aching leg stubbornly persisted. “You can breathe again, my good man. It will not be necessary for me to climb up there again for another year or so.” I poked him in the center of his chest and demanded, “Not a word of this to Christine. I do not wish to spend the next fortnight trying to get her to speak to me again. The last time I nearly plucked every rose from my garden, leaving them all around the house in apology.”

 

The color returned to Damrosch's face as he exhaled. “I share her concern. Erik, you are not a young man anymore. Surely you must be … what, in your mid-seventies?”

 

Was anyone counting? I hardly bothered to even consider it. What was age other than a bothersome number. A meaningless thing that plagued many into trying to fight with time. I sighed and grasped my cane. “I'm retired, not deceased! Do you picture me one of those silver-haired men always sitting statuesque before the hearth, simply in tribute to some arbitrary number?”

 

He brushed the stone dust from the front of my dress coat. “No. I could never see you content in such a state. I know you too well. It's simply … well … Erik, you know she loves you. The last thing she wishes to see is you in pain … again.” He tried to hide the slight cringe.

 

I fought the urge to scowl. A good handful of years passed now since the mansion had been the guardian of my dreadful secret. Inside those walls, society had for a time been oblivious to my dreadful war for my sanity. Though the tumor pressing against my brain had been discovered and removed, it had taken me ages to learn to walk again without betraying the infirmity. The harshest blow came when the surgeon decided to publish an article about his remarkable procedure. Society never looked at me the same again. Even now, my hands clenched into fists at the memories of the torment my family took at the scathing remarks of the public. The physical recovery had been hard enough. The shame was what had brought me to my knees.

 

“I know.” I sighed and released my fist. “My dearest Christine only wishes the best for me. That is all the more why I have planned a splendid evening for the anniversary of our engagement. Bless her sweet heart. I only wish that my spirit could be content to remain the docile husband she desires to preserve. In truth, I confess that I do not even dare to ride Faust unless she is away. But, someone must tend to the spirited stallion. He is wasting away in the fields for want of someone who will let him take his head.” I envied that horse.

 

“She's not the only one who wishes you would mind yourself a bit more.” He lowered his gaze, fixing it on my hands. “Erik, there is no one I know who can command the pipe organ's throne greater than you. It was difficult enough when you decided you could no longer play the violin on the stage. Your Stradivarius … she is a voice missed by many in the orchestra who remember her glory at your fingers.”

 

Slowly I pushed back the cuff of my shirt. The faint scars still betrayed my terrible secret, the chains in the cellar of my own mansion. The shackles that had held me back when the tumor had driven me to murderous madness. Fortunately, I was spared from vivid memories of that dark year.

 

“It has been nearly a decade now.” I tugged the cuff back down and shook my head. “You know why I can not play.”

 

He nodded. “Of course, of course. I wasn't suggesting that. Merely trying to remind you how much we value your presence here, Erik. If anything were to happen … ”

 

“Oh, stop being so serious.” I gave a rap of my cane on the cobblestone. “Now, if you will excuse me, I should go inform Grimaudo of the stonework that needs tending.”

 

The scuff of shoes behind me interrupted my bow. “He may excuse you. But I won't.”

 

I turned to find a vaguely familiar face before me. A face from some years back. An old building contract of mine, if I recalled correctly. An addition to a household that took place before my unfortunate ailment. What was this insufferable man's name? He had been a thorn in my side during the entire project. He had such a fitting name for such a vexing personality. Ah yes. Snodgrass. Mister Semore Snodgrass.

 

I bowed my chin ever so slightly. “Good afternoon to you, Mister Snodgrass.”

 

He tugged on the fingers of his glove. His trembling gaze met mine through the eye-holes of my mask. “It is hardly a good afternoon, you wretch.”

 

Wretch? Well, now that was hardly deserved. “My, what language. We have not conducted business in close to a decade. Pray, tell me what I have done to deserve such a greeting?”

 

Damrosch lingered behind my shoulder. I could feel him there.

 

“And yet you spoke ill of my business!” Snodgrass pulled one finger out of his glove. Then another.

 

Oh dear. I knew where this was going.

 

Heat rose to his cheeks. “Your vile whisperings have ruined everything. Society shuns me because of you. I am now destitute.”

 

“Utter nonsense. I have said no ill words against you, nor any other of late.”

 

“I have witnesses!” Snodgrass leaned, his half-ungloved hand a finger-length from touching me.

 

I had to fight myself not to chuckle at the flop of the empty fingers of his glove as he flailed. “Witnesses I daresay who are lying. I assure you. Up until this moment's accusation, I had hardly spared a passing thought about you.”

 

“Then you deny it!” He sneered.

 

“Of course I do. This entire thing is preposterous. Now excuse me. I have better things to do.”

 

Snodgrass freed the glove and threw it on the ground between my feet. Sweat gleamed on his brow.

 

I stared down at the challenge. What was he thinking? Duels were illegal. Sure, I had been involved in many, right here in Manhattan. A bit of a bribe and law enforcement could easily be persuaded to patrol elsewhere for a few hours. Men did it all the time. But still. Much ado about hear-say rumors.

 

“Pick it up!” Snodgrass growled. “Pick it up or you admit you spread lies about me!”

 

“Do you honestly know what you are doing?”

 

“Pick it up you honorless coward!”

 

In my periphery, people had begun to pause and stare at his tirade. This escalation was entirely intolerable. My fingers tightened into a fist. Damn this man's impertinence. Stiffly, I bent down and plucked the glove off the cobblestones.

 

Snodgrass took a step back. His jaw hung slack for a moment before he clamped it shut.

 

 _Merde._ How was I going to do this? I didn't have much time. If Christine found out, she would forbid me to conclude this fiasco even at the expense of my reputation. There was only one way I could be certain she'd never know.

 

I pressed the glove into his hand and met his shaky gaze. “Pistols at late morning.”

 

He blinked, the color flushing away. “Late morning?”

 

I tugged my own gloves on. “Late morning. My second is feeling his years and does not rise with the sun. I know the knoll. I trust you will be there to conclude your challenge. Now. Good day.”

 

Without waiting for his reply, I turned with a tap of my cane and strode away. Damrosch swiftly appeared at my side, glancing over his shoulder. “Erik. What are doing?”

 

I didn't even pause. “What I always have. What I need to survive. Don't worry. I intend to let him live.”

 

* * * * *

_**~Erik~** _

 

Faust's hooves marked my steady passage along the road to the hidden dueling knoll. An echo followed, the heavy steps of MehrzAd, Nadir's Morgan gelding. I stole a glance over my shoulder. He was tugging back on the reins, a ball of nervous energy. If he kept this up for too much longer, we would be late. A state I found more intolerable than having to attend this duel in the first place.

 

“Pistols, Erik?” The aged Persian murmured to my back. “Pistols. You hate firearms. Why did you even accept this challenge and choose pistols, for Allah's sake?”

 

Beneath me Faust grew restless and threw his head back at being restrained to MehrzAd's idle pace. I patted the stallion's shoulder to calm him. “For the former, because the cad left me with no choice. As for the latter, it is simply because I am aware in my current state I would hardly be a match to a younger opponent with a blade. It has been some years now since I have had the reaction time for a serious match. And nothing is more serious than a man risking his life in an illegal duel for honor. Now, speed up, or I shall proceed without a second.”

 

“Christine will be livid if she learns of this.” He let the reins go slack, but did nothing to spur his horse forward.

 

“Make haste, my good man, and she never shall be troubled by such word. We will be back before noon. She is not scheduled to return for a few more days.”

 

He urged the gelding to my side, eyeing me sideways. “Erik, please don't do this. You know I hate to see you kill.”

 

I chuckled. “You will not witness another death, Daroga. This impudent fool will be left to regret pestering me over a rumor. One quick shot and I shall have finished this.”

 

Nadir tugged at the collar of his shirt. In the distance we could see the knoll through the surrounding copse of trees. Just enough coverage to ensure that casual passers-by wouldn't glimpse the goings-on. I had been here before. Too many times. With my reputation, it was astonishing that any dared to challenge me on these grounds.

 

We halted the horses and tethered them to the post at the bottom of the hill. In silence, we made our way through the tight path to the gathering of men waiting at the clearing. Snodgrass stood with a burly man in a bowler hat as his second. A wiry man held the wooden case with the pistols—the officiate. Two other men leaned on walking sticks at the edge. Every eye watched our approach. Nadir hung back, tugging on his collar as I gestured him to inspect the weapons.

 

Flint-lock pistols. A set made for this purpose. As identical as possible. They were even unloaded with everything prepared. We would be drawing powder from the same supply. The shot was about as round as possible. Indeed, this looked to be as fair in implements as could ever be made.

 

Of course, that spoke nothing of the men holding the triggers. But I could hardly be blamed for my opponent's folly.

 

The wiry man glanced to Nadir. “The second's inspection?”

 

“No need.” I selected my pistol and proceeded to load it. “I am satisfied and that is all that matters.” I spared a look at Nadir who pensively stared at the cane planted between his shoes. He was shaking, the poor thing. I felt rather guilty dragging him all the way here for something he no longer had a stomach for.

 

Once I finished loading my pistol, I turned my attention to Snodgrass. His trembling fingers dropped the shot. He bent down and rummaged around with a string of curses. The spring day was quite cool and overcast. And yet his coat was drenched with sweat.

 

I pointed the pistol in the air and clasped my hands over it, fingers flat across the grip, away from the trigger. We waited as he grappled with the lead ball, ramming it into the chamber. His eyes gleamed with fear. Did he realize what a fool he had been? Oh, he would not be walking from the knoll. I intended to make certain of that much. But he would live … by my hand.

 

At long last, he stilled his jittering. The officiate closed the case and set it aside. “Right. You gents know how this works. Count ten paces. Turn and fire. Any questions?”

 

Well, that was rather to the point. “Hardly.” I came to the arbitrary line, my back to the official of the duel. “Shall we conclude this fracas?”

 

There was no reply from Snodgrass. Only the pressure of his shoulder blade against my back. He shook like a beaten dog. How odd. But I had no time to ponder why.

 

“One.”

 

I took a step. And each one along with the official's count until he reached …

 

“Ten! Turn.”

 

I stopped and turned. My back stiff, I stared straight down my left arm at the end of the muzzle pointed at the man's heart. It was a hard target. The man was visibly shaking.

 

“Fire!”

 

His finger twitched on the trigger. He pressed against it with a hesitation. He shut his eyes and clamped his other hand on the gun. Two fingers pulled the trigger. The ball whistled past my left ear.

 

I smiled. He opened his eyes to stare down the barrel of my pistol still in hand.

 

“No!” He cried and dropped the gun.

 

At the last moment I lowered the muzzle and squeezed the trigger. It kicked back with puff of black smoke. I was rewarded with his cry and the thump of his body as he crumpled to the ground. When the smoke cleared, Snodgrass lay hugging his knee, blood welling between his fingers.

 

I threw the pistol on the ground. “You are fortunate I took only your knee cap. Remember that next time you choose to duel.” I was fortunate the shot had traveled fairly straight. One never knew with pistols how true they aimed. Even with good ones.

 

I turned back to Nadir and offered him a slight nod. “Now, with that business dealt with, shall we return home before we are missed?”

 

Nadir wavered on his feet. I grinned and placed a hand over my heart. I had said I would leave my opponent alive and I always keep my promises after all. When I looked back up, his relief drained from his face. He reached up as if to point.

 

That instant the report of a pistol echoed in my ears.

 


	2. Chapter Two

_ **Chapter 2** _

_ **** _

_**~Charles~** _

"Oh Charles, look!" Simonetta leaned up against the carriage window. Outside the foliage of the western edge of Central Park blurred by. "I can see the rooftop garden from here. _Clef de Voute Manoir_ _,_ it's been too long since we have visited your parents."

I laughed and grasped her gloved hand. How delicate it was, like the lacework of her glove. "I know, darling. But we have seen them both often enough that I felt it an intrusion." As my father's immense mansion loomed over the trees, my heart pounded in my chest. She was right, it had been many months since we had come south from our humble home, northwest of the park. Not that I hadn't wanted to, I respected how much my father relished his privacy. We saw them often enough in passing, frequently on the stage together for an evening's concert at Carnegie Hall. I swore Father would never retire.

Simonetta blushed and shifted closer to me. "You did tell them we were coming."

"No. It is such a rare moment to be able to surprise them. Especially Father. You know how perceptive he is."

She giggled. "You're not still grousing over Christmas are you?"

My right hand turned, flipping my hat on my knee in the dappled shade as we rounded the corner to turn into the drive. I bit my lip before replying. "You know the lengths I went to keep his present a secret. And yet, he not only knew about the commissioned statue but had managed to take his own chisels to it. How? How did he find out?"

The carriage passed by that very marble statue at the end of the mansion's drive. Grimaudo had sworn to me utter secrecy, not even the sculptor he had lined up had been aware of who the commission had been for. And yet somehow, Father had discovered it and made a few signature marks on the wings of the nightingale nestled in his rose. The piece was roughly a meter tall, and highly detailed. Father's touches were obvious to the discerning eye. Over the sixteen years since I had learned the truth and met him, I had come to recognize his unique hand. And appreciate it. Had it not been for him, I swore Mother would have forbade me to learn music. That very talent, fostered by him, provided well for me and Simonetta. Respectable enough that, with my inheritance, I purchased my own home and we were married last spring.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand oak door. Simonetta smoothed her dress folds. She placed a hand on my chest. "Good heavens, your heart is trying to escape. Relax, this isn't like when you formally asked my father for my hand."

The heat rose to my face. I covered it with a sweep of my hat. "I know. It's just … do you think we should wait?"

Her pulse doubled as I took her hand. In her eyes I glimpsed the response even before she spoke. "I can't wait a moment longer. Quick, open the door."

Without waiting for the driver, I opened the door and dropped down to the cobblestones. Simonetta took my hand and climbed down to join me. She glowed in the afternoon sunshine like a prize bloom in my father's garden. I fought the urge to sweep her up and spin her just to watch the petals of her blue dress flutter on the breeze.

I tipped my hat to our driver. "Wait for us. We will be awhile."

"Yessir." He nodded back and went to tend the horses.

By the time we climbed the front steps and passed the manor's twin stone griffins, the oak door opened. The butler's stoic gaze greeted us. "Afternoon, Monsieur and Madame Daae. You are most unexpected."

"For once." I grinned with a wink to Simonetta. "What a rare treat to surprise Father."

"Indeed," he replied. "They will both likely be surprised when _they_ return."

Simonetta let go of my hand. "Return? Where have they gone?"

"Madame Daae is away at a music festival in Hartford."

"I had forgotten about her invitation. Oh dear, that does put a wrinkle in our plans."

Beside me Simonetta wilted a bit.

"Father didn't go with her, did he?"

"Certainly not." He barely shook his head. "Monsieur Erik engages in little travel these days."

"Because Nadir doesn't let him." I chuckled. "That old goat."

Simonetta placed a hand on my shoulder, but addressed the butler. "You said, when they return?"

The slightest bob of his head. "Indeed I did. Monsieur Erik and Nadir went out this morning on a ride."

I narrowed my eyes. "Ride? Father took Faust out while Mother is away? How did he convince Nadir of this?"

"I am a servant, Monsieur. As you know, his business is his own."

"They have not returned?"

He shook his head. "You may of course enter and wait if you like."

Simonetta sighed and tugged me from the door. "Let's go home, Charles. The news was for them both."

So much for surprising them.

A wild neigh carried over the din in the street. A familiar neigh. I looked up to see a black Arabian stallion dashing down the street, his rein dragging behind him.

"Faust?" I descended the stairs and waved my arms to catch the wide-eyed gaze of the frantic beast.

He reared up a short distance from me. The ends of his reins slapped my upraised hand. They were damp and rough. I reached out and seized the leather. It had been chewed through. As usual, no bit, no saddle. My father had taken him out.

My father. Where was my father?

"Easy, Faust. Easy. Calm down. Where did you come from?"

He danced back, flicking his head in the direction he had come. I released the reins. He dashed a few meters, stopped and stared. The whites of his eyes were beacons in the afternoon sunlight.

I grasped Simonetta's hand and darted to the carriage. "Something's wrong! He wants us to follow. Driver! Don't lose that horse!" I slammed the door as the carriage rumbled through the streets.

Each block we passed I urged the carriage faster. Father knew better than to go riding. How many times had Mother told him to be careful? Reminded him that he wasn't young, roughly thirty years older than her. The years were upon him. What was he thinking? Well, true, Father had always been as headstrong as the stallion guiding us now. No one could tell Faust what to do, except Father. No. Faust wouldn't have thrown him. And if he had, he never would lead us back. Something was wrong.

Up ahead, I spied the spirited beast turning to dart down along a northern block. Breaking into the sparser populated areas now, I wondered where were we going? At last, Faust dashed up to the foot of wooded hill and reared.

I leapt out of the carriage before it rolled to a stop. Another familiar horse tethered in place tugged on his reins. MehrzAd stood half concealed in the brush. Beside him, the tattered remains of Faust's reins. The stallion stomped and tossed his head toward the bracken.

I pushed through, hearing the clatter of the carriage stopping behind me and Simonetta's hasty steps following.

"What is it?" she called out.

I glanced back over my shoulder, hand on a low tree branch. "There's not much of a path here—oof!" My foot caught on something. I stumbled to keep my balance. It had been … soft. I leaned past the heavily leaved branches and fell forward.

"Nadir!"

He lay face down in the brush, his clothing mussed and torn. A large goose-egg rose purple from the side of his head, visible at the edge of his thinning hair. I rolled him onto his back and pressed a hand to his chest just as Simonetta fought her way to my side. His chest rose and fell.

"Nadir, open your eyes. Wake up!" I shouted into his face.

Simonetta cast her gaze into the thicket. "Where is your father?"

"I don't know. For God's sake, Nadir, wake up!"

He moaned, his head rolling to the side before his eyes started to flutter open. "Wha … what happened?"

"You have to remember." I held him firmly, even as his eyes refused to focus. "Nadir. You went riding with my father this morning. It's afternoon. Faust came to the mansion. Where is my father? You have to remember what happened!" He could be anywhere. This hill was surrounded by an expansive forest.

"Charles, stop shaking him." Simonetta bent down and eased his head into her lap. "Shh, calm down, Nadir. Just take a few deep breaths and try to remember."

"My … my … head hurts."

"I know." She brushed her fingers beside the lump. "You hit your head. How did you hit your head?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "All I remember was … coming here … on the horses … I didn't want to. Erik made me. Erik had to." His words ran into one another, tripping and stumbling.

"Focus, old man!" I grasped the collar of his coat. "Why did my father make you come here?"

"He had to. He said he had to. He had no choice."

"Nadir, why?"

His jade eyes flooded with the black of his pupils and trembled. "Honor."

My heart stopped.

Oh God, no! I shot to my feet.

The dueling knoll! We were at the dueling knoll.

Heedless of the lack of trail, I thrashed my way through the thick growth. "Father!" My voice sounded louder in my ears, the woods, too quiet. "Faaaather!"

Blindly I stumbled into the clearing. On the far side of the hill I caught a glimpse. The grass stained dark red, almost brown. Dried blood. At the end of the slick, sprawled on his belly, lay my father, his bloodstained hand in mid reach for the mask just beyond his fingertips.

"No!" I stumbled to his side. "No! You can't be—"

The rattled inhale silenced me. I touched his shoulder. He flinched.

"You're alive! You're still breathing." I screamed to the woods, "Simonetta! He's alive!"

Grasping his shoulder, I rolled him onto his right side. The left side of his jacket dark with blood. He wailed out, his hands shaking as they shifted uselessly in the grass. "Shhh. It's going to be alright now, Father. I have you."

Holding him against me, I felt each breath rattled in and out, punctuated by a whimper. Tears drenched his skin, dirt highlighting the anguish lines on his deformed face. Low on his hunter green satin vest, I noticed a hole, rimmed with deep red, larger than the one in the back of his jacket. Immediately, I pulled my cravat from my neck.

"This might hurt. I'm sorry about that." I worked the fabric under him. Each shift triggered a fresh cry. "Shh, everything is going to be fine. You see, the bullet came out." I glanced up to find Simonetta helping Nadir approach. "You're going to be alright, Father. You'll see. Just a few stitches and everything will be just fine."

Father's hand gripped the knot of my cravat around his belly. I leaned over his naked face, his pained expression rendered his deformity all the more grotesque. But I loved him. This man was my father!

"How … how could you have lost?" I whispered, a tear escaped my eye to mingle with his.

But his only response was a shudder.

"He didn't." Nadir mumbled. "He … he won. Knee. I remember a knee. But then … the back … shot him … in the back … the coward. Oh Allah! Erik! I failed as his second." He stumbled forward and crumpled to the ground. His hand closed around something. He opened his palm and stared at a chip of stone. "Marble … marble, marble … they threw this at him. Threw it and laughed. Marble, his marble. From the quarry."

"Shh, stop fussing. Charles, we need to get them both back home. Quickly."

I nodded. "Hold on." I placed the mask over my father's face and gingerly picked him up. His torso folded in my grasp for a second before he flailed back out, stiff. His scream like a hunted rabbit. "I'm sorry. I'll try to be careful."

The trees fingers grasped and tripped me as I tried to force my way to the carriage. In my arms, every jostle of his body triggered a spasm. By the time we broke through, his tears had drenched my shirt to the skin.

Simonetta held Nadir up, talking to him softly. His eyes threatened to close as he staggered into the carriage. I laid my father across my lap, holding his hand, praying he would grasp it back. He lay there, shuddering.

I rapped my hand against the roof. "To _Clef de Voute Manoir_ with all haste!"

"Sir, the other horses..."

"Leave them! Jacques can come for them."

The carriage rolled forward. I held him as tight as I dared. I counted each of his rattled breaths watched by Nadir's haunted gaze.

"That's it, Father. Just keep breathing. We're almost there. We'll get you help. Open your eyes, please. Come on, at least try."

But he didn't. The lids remained clamped tight as the carriage bounced along the streets. At last we came to a halt in the mansion's drive. Our driver swung down and hastily tore the door open. As carefully as I could, I eased my father out of the narrow carriage door. He barely flinched at the contact. I reached the oak door the moment the butler opened it. His stoic features flushed at the sight as I pushed past him.

"Fetch a surgeon! Swiftly! He's been shot!" I did not linger to see if he obeyed. Instead I mounted the stairs and made straight though the study and into the master bedchamber. I laid him out on the bed and leaned in close, grasping his hand.

"Father. You're home. Just hold on a bit longer."

He shivered. Sweat beaded on his pale skin, drenching his silver hair to cake it to his scalp. Beneath the mask, I spied the grimace of pain.

"The bullet passed through." I whispered, brushing the hair away from beneath the rim of the mask. "So … you're going to be fine. A few stitches. Some rest. You'll be alright."

If only he would grip my hand. But the fingers shivered against mine. Nothing driving them.

"Father, can you hear me? You're going to be alright." The tears stung in my eyes until I had to shut them. Heat rolled against my cheeks.

He had to be all right.

A firm hand pried me away from the bedside. I struggled blindly before realizing the doctor and the butler were dragging me away.

"No! I want to stay! No!"

"Come away, Monsieur Daae. There is nothing you can do."

"He is my father!"

The doctor pressed me out the door and started to shut it behind him. "I know."

The latch clicked. I pounded my fists on the door. "Let me in!"

"Monsieur, please stop."

I rounded on the butler, my fist eager for a target. He stumbled back away from me before turning to flee the room. A moment later, my eyes found Nadir seated before the hearth, my wife holding ice to the lump on his forehead.

My hands clenched into fists. "You!"

He blinked over her shoulder.

I surged forward, spittle flew with my words. "You! You were his second! How could you let this happen? How could you? You who claimed to be Father's closest friend. How could you!"

She came between us, placing a hand on my chest. The damp fabric of my shirt cold against my skin. Damp, with his sweat and tears. "Charles. Keep your voice down."

I glared past her, into the eyes of the man who no longer met my gaze. "Speak Nadir! What happened?"

He sobbed and collapsed into his open palms. "They made me watch!"

"Who? Who made you watch? Watch what?"

He shook his head for a moment before swaying. The motion sent his gaze skittering about the room. Simonetta held him steady and spoke softly as my temper continued to well. At long last, he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. "Please … my head hurts … I want to lie down."

"Nadir," she whispered to him, "you need to stay awake. Keep talking. What do you remember? What did they make you watch?"

I stalked the length of the study, glaring at the closed door. What was going on in there? Did he have everything he needed?

"Men. A group of them. The duel was … odd."

"Who was it?" My dear wife kept her voice calm.

I kept my jaws clenched. If I spoke, I would shout.

"Snodgrass. Semore Snodgrass."

I drove my fist into the back of the leather couch. "I will kill him!"

Nadir grasped his head and moaned. "You … can't. The second. The man … the big one they called the Black Dog, his second, he killed him. After he shot Erik." His voice cracked and he clasped a hand over his mouth for a long moment. "Snodgrass … Erik shot him in the knee. Spared him."

"Yes yes," I growled, "Father's honor, I get it."

"You're not listening!" He clung to my wife's shoulder for a moment before leaning back into the cushions. "Erik was walking away when the Black Dog shot him in the back. The others, a good six of them, came out of the woods. I couldn't stop it."

"Did you know this man, this Black Dog?"

"No. The others took orders from him. Erik … Erik crumpled like a rag doll." He clenched his eyes. "The man smiled right in his face and tore the mask away. They began to taunt him. Threw the stone at him."

"And you did nothing to stop them?"

He tugged on his torn coat. "They held me fast! Four of them on me. There was nothing I could do. Snodgrass berated Black Dog for missing. It was then that Black Dog turned to him and explained that he hadn't missed. He'd hit Erik exactly where he wanted. Right where he was supposed to, to make him suffer. That instant death wasn't the worst thing in the world. Snodgrass kept saying this whole thing was over now. He was free to go. His end of this bargain over. Cause, cause he had lived in the duel. Black Dog smiled, took out a second pistol and fired a shot right into his chest. I fought like mad to get loose. I saw, there on the ground, Erik crawling, trying to get to his mask. He was alive. He was fighting to rise. But every time he got his limbs beneath him, he'd crumple in a heap."

"And you didn't help him?" I snarled, my nails dug into the fabric of the couch.

He shivered. "I tried. The men kicked me, held me tight." He tugged the cuff of his shirt back and rows of bruising bloomed there, deep purple like his goose-egg. "Two men dragged Snodgrass's body off. Black Dog, meanwhile, just hovered over Erik peppering him with horrid descriptions of his face. I could hear the rattle building, Erik's breath going shallow. The one time Erik came close to rising Black Dog, stepped on his back and ground his heel. The last thing I saw as they dragged me off into the wood was Erik shuddering. His fingers groping for the mask. I'm sorry! I tried to stop them. I tried to stop Erik from coming here! I tried." He dissolved into sobbing.

"Shhh." Simonetta embraced him and rubbed his shoulder, rocking him like a child. "There's nothing to be done now."

A duel was an honorable affair. I ground my teeth. Only cowards shot men in the back. My father never in all his days had done such a thing. Always, always he had faced his opponents.

The door clicked open. I spun on my heel. The doctor carried a small box with a glass jar. He placed them in my hands. I stared at him. He did not meet my gaze. I cleared my throat.

"The morphine is for the pain."

"Morphine?" I stared at the jar. "No. Father can't have morphine. He … he used to take that. He … used to smoke opium. No. Mother will forbid this. He might get addicted again."

The doctor placed a hand over the jar. "There is no risk of that. There is nothing more to be done for him now."

The room spun. I grasped his shoulder with my empty hand, harder than I intended for he flinched. "You weren't in there long enough! He needs surgery!"

"Young man," the somber voice was like ice, "closing his wounds further than I have would prolong his agony. Sepsis has already set in from the bullet piercing his stomach. I have cleaned as much as I could, and dressed it well. Inject this into his vein as I have written down and it should help keep him comfortable through the passing."

"No … no … " I could not move. The world ceased to turn. Nothing existed anymore. Passing? No. Father would always be there.

Always.

Somehow Nadir had come to my side. Simonetta took the morphine and the box from my hand and gave it to him. He opened the case, a chambered needle lay inside. His color grayed in the lamplight before he closed it. "I know what to do … unfortunately."

The doctor bowed his head. "I am truly sorry." He picked up his bag and quietly left.

My knees gave out. Simonetta tried to catch me and ease me to floor.

I have no idea how long I sat there clutching the threads of the old rug. The old rug I remembered from my first glimpse of this place. When my father had tended a knife wound to my chest, the result of some drunkards fighting to kidnap me. I would have drowned that night. If he had not fished me out of the Hudson river and tended my wound, I would have died. Now … he lay in that next room. Wounded. Dy … no. Not _that_ word.

Powerless. I could do nothing to save him. I had discovered him in dire need.

I had failed him.

"Charles, my love. Go. Sit with him. Someone needs to send word to Mother. This shouldn't be a servant. I'll hurry back." She kissed me on the cheek and pulled me to my feet.

That door never looked so impossible to reach … as now.


	3. Chapter Three

_ **Chapter 3** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

Even in the dim light from the wall sconces I could see the fever flushed bright on his skin. His face, usually slightly yellowed from the deformity, had a pink tinge. Odd, that color would have been a sign of good health. On him now, it meant something entirely different. He moaned, his fingers grasped a loose handful of damp blanket and twisted it. That movement was a bitter balm. It broke the illusion that he had become the corpse he resembled his whole life. The malformed lips tightened across his teeth for the tenth time in as many minutes. He constantly shivered. The brass rings holding the bed curtain chimed, mocking his misery with their music.

Time stood still in this room. Every rasp of his breath held me captive. Any one of them might be his last. All I could do was sit at the bedside and watch the flickering pulse on the side of his neck. This man who had been unyielding strength. Who had sacrificed his greatest treasure to secure my future. That man was no longer here. 

The figure beneath the covers clung to a frail shadow of life. Bones with flesh stretched over them. He'd always been thin, but where had the muscle tone gone? Had he concealed his age all these years beneath the finely tailored dress clothes? I counted his ribs down to where the swelling began. The usual hollow of his belly rose like an isolated hill. 

A strange gurgle disturbed the pattern of his breathing. I leaned forward to cradle his head, holding a wide bowl at the ready. I knew what was happening. 

His body grew rigid before a spasm racked him. He wretched into the bowl. A foul mixture that stank of bile the color of blood. He shivered, rivulets of sweat dripping into the bowl. I stroked the side of his head waiting for the next spasm. 

It did not come. When I withdrew the bowl and lay his head back on the pillow his eyes cracked open. One so dark brown the pupil drowned in the iris. The other a glazed blue with a pinpoint of black trembling at the center. 

“It's alright.” I dipped a cloth in cool water and draped it over his forehead. “Just lie still and rest.”

His eyes opened and closed slowly. Too slowly. He wasn't even looking at me, but beyond. Had the raging fever taken his vision? He could not have been looking at Nadir. Though the old man was in here sitting a silent vigil with me, he wasn't at the end of the bed. Father's finger extended, toward the door. Once. Twice. 

I followed the gesture. In silence Damrosch stood with his hat in his hands. 

I rubbed my eyes and tried to stand. My legs ached as I rose. I held onto the arm of the chair to keep from stumbling. “My apologies. I didn't hear you arrive. How long have you been here?” My voice sounded hollow in my ears.

Damrosch twitched his gaze to me, then back to the bed. He took a few halting steps into the room, wringing the rim of his hat. “A short while, Charles.” He glanced at the bowl I had set aside. “It's … it's true then. What Simonetta told me. My God, having seen him just yesterday … I didn't want to believe it.”

I bowed my head, fighting for words that would not come.

Damrosch set his hat aside and approached the side of the bed looking somberly down at my father. By now, the eyes had shut again. “Is he conscious?”

“In and out of it.” I sighed. “The fever plagues him so.”

“I imagine it would. A shot to the back. It is … well … ” He turned and took my hand. “If I had known, I would have tried harder to stop him yesterday.”

I withdrew from his gesture and clenched my fist. “You know he would have rebuked you. Father was too stubborn for his own good.” 

He nodded. “Yes, that he was. But even still, Erik could be made to listen to reason. I thought little of it.”

“And yet someone has murdered my father.”

He blanched. “Then … there truly is no chance?”

I hung my head, the tears stung in my eyes again. 

“I am truly sorry, Charles.”

“He did this to himself.” I muttered. “He could have said no. He could have walked away.” 

“I'm afraid it wasn't that simple.”

“ … please … ” That whimpered word cut my reply. We turned our heads to find my father's hand shaking in the air. “ … please … ” He writhed beneath the covers. “ … pain … no more … ”

Nadir placed a hand on my shoulder and pushed me aside. The old Persian opened the wooden box and picked up the needle. With the jar in his other hand, we watched as he filled the chamber and pressed it back down a few notches. “Not too much.”

Father's fingers clawed toward the needle. “ … fill it … ” That voice held no power. It was sheer weakness. Hardly a whisper. “ … please … end … this … ”

Nadir stared at the needle for a long moment before his trembling gaze turned to meet my father's. He shook his head. “No, Erik. Enough to ease. No more.”

“ … please … ” The tips of his fingers touched the jar. 

The corners of Nadir's eyes puckered, his aged lines becoming more prominent. He set the jar on the nightstand and gently clasped my father's hand. “No, my friend.”

My father reached out with his other hand and grasped Nadir's arm. Fear swirled in the pinpoints of his eyes. “ … I know … what … follows … please … mercy … ” As much as he could he pulled. “ … mercy … fill it … end this … ”

Nadir shook his head. Closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. “No, Erik. I can't kill you no matter how much you beg me.”

“ … please … ”

Damrosch leaned in and seized Father's flailing hand. At the moment of contact, my father's faltering gaze turned to him. “Easy, my friend. Christine is on her way.”

“ … Chris … Christine?” 

“Mmm hmm. She'll be here soon, Erik. You don't want to miss her do you?”

Father's arm hung limp in Damrosch's grasp, who hid a glance to Nadir. In the brilliant distraction he had plunged the needle into the vein. Already I could see the effects as the panic faded. Father's breathing softened. The tension abandoned him.

“ … she … she is coming … to see me … I … ”

“You need to rest.” Damrosch forced a smile. He tried to withdraw his hand, but Father grasped his arm, his eyes opening wide.

“ … the music … where is the music? … my … my … requiem … lost … lost for years … ”

“Not lost.” Damrosch knelt down, eye-level with him. “Don't fret. You gave it to me years ago, Erik. Years ago for safe keeping. I promise you, I know where it is.”

Father shut his eyes in pained relief, tears mingling with the sweat. “ … need of it … afraid soon … my requiem … it must … must … be … ”

The remainder of his words were mangled, lost to the morphine's pull.

Damrosch bowed his head, his voice tight. “I know.” He gently rested my father's hand on the bed. He stiffly took a seat beside Nadir. 

We sat in silence. Numbed by the blur of time, I had failed to notice Simonetta enter to take my place at the bedside. She leaned over Father, mopping his brow from a fresh bowl of water. It should have been me, but I could not summon the strength to move. The mantle clock ticked mercilessly on. I glanced down to find my bloodstained cravat at my feet. The doctor must have left it there. I plucked it from the floor, studying the dark brown marring the pale blue fabric. 

The murmur of a voice droned on. I heard Nadir, but was not listening.

“He knows. That's why he begged me. That's why he wants the peace of the needle. He knows for he has seen that miserable death. But I can't do it. Even knowing his fate. Even having read his notes. Erik doesn't know I have read them. All of them. The journals he kept over the years. All those years. The years under the Opera house. Oh Allah, the accounts of the Communard dungeon … he watched them. The soldiers, lying there chained in the darkness, dying of their wounds. He knows … intimately what to expect as this takes him ... drags him along the fevered rocks.”

“Soldiers?” Damrosch replied. “Erik wasn't in a war … was he?”

“No. No. He was in Paris, during the siege. He holed himself up inside the Paris Opera to try and protect her, for she was not even finished yet. The soldiers nearly blew her up with their gun powder stores. But the prisoners, oh how many prisoners died within her hidden walls. The skeletons … some are still there.”

“Don't be ridiculous there are no skeletons down there.”

“There are, Damrosch! I have seen them. Erik showed me. Not far from where he lived beneath the Opera, in his home on the shores of the underground lake. How do you think he knew how to haunt the place so well? Erik knew that building from the walls of the foundation to the sculptures on the roof. He knew every passage concealed within her walls. No one else could have done what he did. I should have known earlier. I should have stopped him before things became dire. How could I have not suspected it was him?”

“Nadir, are you certain you are alright? What are you talking about?”

“None could have done it but Erik. I should have seen his signature in the architecture. Seen it in the reports of the incidents. I should have known earlier it was him performing his magic behind the walls. But I didn't want to believe it. Erik, the Paris Opera ghost.”

I sat upright, my hand gripping my knee at those last words, even as I heard Damrosch gasp. I snapped, “That's enough of that, old man!” 

When I glared at him, he quailed into his hands. 

“Father didn't want that known! You know that! More than anyone you know that he detested that vile secret!” I twisted the cravat between my hands, the fabric murderously taught between my fists. 

Damrosch quickly rose to his feet. “Charles, his secret is safe with me. Relax. It is alright.”

“Father lies dying because of this fool. It is not alright.” 

Nadir dropped to the floor from his chair and knelt in a protective ball. “Please! I'm sorry. I tried!”

“Not hard enough!” The fabric cracked in the air as I snapped it taut. Tears welled in my eyes.

Simonetta's hand touched my shoulder. The pressure guided me back to the chair beside my father. Turn by turn, she unraveled the cravat from my fingers. She leaned in and kissed the tears from my cheeks. Without a word, she tugged my hand to rest on my father's. My shoulders fell. I crumpled forward, resting my forehead on his hand.

Between my sobs I heard her helping Nadir from the floor. “Here, let's get more ice for your head.”

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Christine~** _ _

I raced up the staircase. Too long. The carriage ride through the night from Hartford had taken too long. The whole journey, my only company was the copy of the wire Simonetta had sent. That paper fluttered in my grasp as I dashed toward the study. 

Why had I left? The morning of my departure there had been an air about him. That strange open silence that betrayed some secret plan. He had been waiting for me to leave. Waiting to let that reckless spirit of his take his head. 

What have you done, Erik? Where the hell was Nadir to remind you to be careful? 

The bed chamber door was half open in the evening light. I barely slowed, colliding with the wood and clipping the doorknob. Shadows beside the bed scattered as I rushed in, pushing my way to his side. 

His face shimmered with moisture. I could feel the fever hovering over him. Erik had always been cool to the touch, never warm—never burning. Every breath was a rattled gasp beneath the damp blanket. His bare arm lay bruised and marked with tiny punctures. A needle? Oh God, what had he done? 

I yanked the blanket back exposing a stained linen wrapping around his torso. Every inch of him glistened with sweat. The bandage needed changing. I needed to see what he had done. I set to work to untie the knot, a hand embraced mine.

“Mother, don't—”

“Charles. Either help me or get out of the way.”

Slowly, he released my hand. 

“Roll him on his right side. The left looks worse.” I began to unwind the dressing. 

“The left is … worse. Mother ple... ”

“We'll need a fresh dressing. And some clean water.”

Simonetta appeared beside me with both. I barely spared her a glance, tugging the last of the linen from my husband's limp body. Freed from the dressing, the hole in his back pooled with pus. I carefully cleansed it, paying attention to the raw flesh. The foul odor coming from it was enough to make me gag. Charles tilted Erik in my direction. In his belly, a larger hole gaped, angry red streaks chasing a path up his chest. Clots of blood and pus clung to the edges of the swelling. 

My hand hovered over the wound. I followed the streaks on his pale skin, burning brighter than the fever blush. The pock marks on his arm … there on the nightstand, the jar. Morphine. 

Oh God, no.

I shut my eyes for a long moment. 

“Mother, how this hap—”

“Not now.” I opened my eyes and wiped away the pus. 

“But—”

“No. Hold him up so I can dress the wound.” 

He obeyed and in the span of a few moments I retied the knot and settled Erik on his back, pulling the blanket to conceal the bandage. I took the bowl with me and a fresh towel, wringing it out to place it on his forehead. He barely stirred. I kept my eyes fixed on those closed eyelids. Watched every tiny flicker of life beneath them. 

He was still alive. For now. 

His hair was a mess. He would hate that. I pealed the silver strands away from where the sweat had stuck them to his skin. His comb lay on the nightstand. I used it to smooth it out just the way he liked it.

Charles lingered at my side, his hands folded before him. “Mom.”

I set the comb down and reached over and took my son's hand. We sat in silence. I heard the others. I knew Nadir sat in the deep shadows, staring at his lap. Damrosch stood right behind me. Simonetta fetched a fresh bowl of cool water.

Only then, as I laid the cloth once more on Erik's feverish brow, did I dare to ask. “How long ago?”

“Yesterday.” Charles replied. “Yesterday morning. We didn't find him until early afternoon. He shouldn't've been dueling.”

Dueling? I tensed. 

No. That didn't matter now. 

Erik moaned, his eyes squeezing tight for a moment. I brushed my fingers on his cheek. “Shh. Just rest, my love.”

Gradually his eyes opened. Fever-bright, they blinked without focus. Their vague gaze followed the path up to my face. 

“ … Chris … Christine … ” he rasped out. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. His hand shuddered in the air as he groped for my hand. I let him find it. His grasp trembled. 

“I'm here. You have nothing to fear.”

He thrashed, gripping my arm with what I dreaded was all that remained of his strength. “ … do … not … let me … die! … No … no … hell … not hell … ”

“Hush now. You're not going to hell.” I tried to smile, but he dug his nails into my skin, clawing in his panic.

His eyes widened, pupils just pinpoints in the mismatched islands of color. All drowned in a sea of bloodshot white. Every word had a harsh gasp. “ … never see you … never again … not in hell … ”

“Nonsense. Why would you go to hell?” I pried his fingers from my arm and massaged the back of his hand.

“ … soul … sold it … soul sold to … to the devil … ”

The fever blazed, but down in his frantic gaze, the seed of something deeper stared back at me. I had heard him say this before. I had thought it a joke. Never had I thought he had believed it to be true. “No, Erik. No you didn't.”

He nodded, tears trailing down to soak the pillow. “ … Christine … yes … yes I did … young … but the pact … real … oh God … what have … I done? … save me … save me … ”

“Shh.” I leaned in close and kissed him on the lips to still his fretting. It only interrupted his words. He shuddered in the bed. “You have more than made up for that. Think of all the lives you have changed.”

“ … taken … blood … murder … death … all the lives, ruined … damned ... ” He tried to grasp his head but his hands failed to find it. “ … I can feel hell waiting … don't let me go … ”

“It's the fever, my Angel.” I wrung out the towel and replaced it on his brow. “Just the fever. Now, isn't that better?”

His words barely came out. Just a tumble of odd sounds without sense. He whimpered and tugged at the blanket.

I reached to the nightstand and touched the gold beak of the little nightingale automaton perched with his rose. When the music box's notes hung in the air, Erik's weary eyes watched the bird courting the flower. I hummed softly, stroking his hand until his breathing relaxed in time with the song. 

Music. Let that carry him to sleep for however long it lasted. I spent the hours of stillness counting every hair on his head. Memorizing every contour of his unusual face. His face, not the mask he had been locked behind his entire life. I knew the others kept vigil with me. But what mattered most was before me.

Over the hours Erik lingered, crying out and twisting in the sheets for a few minutes before fading back into stillness for many more. Shortly after midnight he opened his eyes and feebly reached out. 

“What do you want, my love?”

It took him three times to form the word. It came with hardly a sound. “ … peace … ”

Nadir came to the nightstand and took the needle. Stiffly he drew out a measured amount from the jar. 

Erik watched him. His lips moved, but the sound refused to come. At last he wheezed out, “ … more … ”

“No.” He took Erik's arm, every motion mechanical. “I told you, Erik. I can't … ” his voice broke enough he had to swallow to continue. “Don't ask me. I can't … can't kill you. I won't do it. No matter how much you beg me.”

“ … pl … please … ” Erik's eyes were already closing even as Nadir injected the dreadful drug. 

I leaned over his ear and whispered, “I will see you in heaven, my Angel.”

“ … Chris … tine … ”

“I love you.” I caressed his face as he slept. Hour after hour passed. I continued until my hand went numb. 

Erik's breathing lengthened. Shallow rasps broke the silence. I dried his brow until the moisture did not return, the flesh beneath cool to my touch, pale in the pre-dawn light. He was so still now. The rise of his chest the only sign of life. 

A shaft of sunlight spread into the room through the study. The gilded nightingale perched on his rose, gleamed and spread a cascade of color into the darkened room. I could not look away from him, but my peripheral vision could not ignore the dance of light.

Erik's chest rose sharply, the breath released in a long drawn out rattle. A minute passed. Then two. 

Nadir touched the side of his neck and waited. Slowly, his eyes closed and he bowed his head.

No. 

I seized Erik's chilled hand. No. I would not let this be. I held it tight. No pulse thrummed there in the thin flesh covering the bone.

No! I dug my nails into the back of his hand. No flinch responded.

“No!” I drove my fist into his chest. “Don't leave me! You can't be dead, Erik! Come back!” I could not hurt him now. 

I collapsed on his body and held him tightly, the residual warmth fading between my fingers. My tears soaked him. 

“Come back to me! You did before! Come back.” 

“Mother.” Charles tried to pull me up.

I clung to him, tucking my head beneath his chin.

“He's gone, Mother.” Stubbornly, he pulled me up, finger by finger loosening my grip until he bundled me in his arms and held me close. He was shaking. “He's … gone.”


	4. Chapter Four

_ **Chapter 4** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

“Can you hear me, Charles?” His voice drifted through the fog. I blinked, trying to refocus my eyes. Walter Damrosch stood behind his office desk at Carnegie Hall. He leaned closer and squinted. “Are you sure you are alright?”

It took me forever to process his words. Longer to find a reply. “Yes.” I rubbed my forehead. “No. God, I really don't know. I just feel so … so … ”

“Numb?” he offered.

I nodded.

“I know.” He slid his fingers under the cover of the leather bound score and flipped it closed. His hands folded on top. 

I followed his mournful gaze to the lettering. My father's looping script. His setting of the requiem mass. My throat snapped shut. 

“This … ” he began and shook his head. “Charles, there are no words for this. None. It seems like ages ago Erik left this work in my hands here at the hall. Somehow I never imagined we'd have to play it.”

“There is … there is something else he wants to leave to the Hall.”

Damrosh held up a hand. “The man built this place and left a legacy of music. He need leave nothing … ” 

His voice faded as I lifted the worn leather case into my lap. My chest felt like someone filled it with water to bursting. 

When he spoke, his voice was no more than a stunned whisper. “My God … Erik's Stradivarius!”

I jerked more than nodded. “It's in his will. I know it is, I was there when he wrote it.”

“Charles, no. I can't take it. This belonged to him.”

I lifted the case and laid it on his desk. My vision blurred with unshed tears. “You have to, Walter. Someone has to. He would want her played. He lived through her. She needs to sing … she must be … must be played to send him … oh God.”

His arms encircled me, catching me as I fell forward. “Of course. Of course. This explains why you came to see me before the funeral. I promise I will select one of our finest to play.”

I rolled my head against his shoulder. “You.” I choked out. “It should be you, Walter. He would want it to be you.”

He stiffened, but continued to hold me until I could breathe without gasping. I wiped the tears from my face. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to … ”

His hand rested on my shoulder. “Don't apologize. Losing one's father is a difficult process. I understand, even though those memories are distant for me.” His eyes drifted to the case. Carefully he opened the latches and lifted the lid. Inside, the violin's oiled wood gleamed. His hand caressed the neck. “I … I would be honored to play her in tribute to him. Though she will not sound the same without her maestro, even in St. Patrick's Old Cathedral. I confess that I was quite shocked to hear that is where the funeral will be taking place. I didn't know your father was a practicing Catholic.”

“He wasn't past his childhood, so he told me.”

“Then how?”

I had to smile. “You should have seen Mother confront the bishop yesterday. I've never witnessed a man of the cloth rendered into complete silence by biblical quotes. He even briefly retired to the sacristy to confirm the scripture, only to come out paler than his robes. There was no way she was leaving without securing Father a full Mass.”

Reverently, he closed the violin's case. Taking a seat on the edge of his desk, he let a small grin show. “If any could have, it would have been Christine. I witnessed a number of times where she put Erik in his place like no one else would dare to. I don't envy the bishop for having to face her. Speaking of which, you should go back to the manor and be with her now. Leave the musicians to me. We will honor your father's passing.” He paused, looking me in the eyes. “Are you certain you do not wish to play?”

The lump rammed into my throat. My face fell into my hands.

He rubbed my shoulder. “I wanted you to know it is your choice.”

“I … I can't.”

“He will understand, Charles. Besides, your mother needs you with her. Go, I will see you at the church tomorrow.”

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

Somehow, Mother's eyes were dry. In unrelieved black, she leaned over the edge of his coffin and adjusted his cravat. 

I swallowed the lump in my throat and dared to look once more. He could have been resting. Dressed in his finely tailored tail coat with a deep blue brocade vest that hid the evidence of his tragic end. Through the eye holes of his white satin mask, he looked at peace. 

Peace. How could a murdered man rest? Someone had shot him in the back. He would not be here now save for that. The fabric of my gloves pulled tight over my knuckles as I gripped the coffin's edge. My mother's hand rested over mine. Rigid, stiff. Like her stance. I reached over and embraced her shoulder. She leaned into me, I the only thing holding her from falling to the ground.

The tap of Nadir's cane echoed in the private visitation hall. He lingered beside us, his face locked in a stoic numbness. His lips moved, but the words that came out in a stuttering murmur were unknown to me. Something small, a tarnished piece of metal remained clutched in his hand.

Simonetta came to Mother's right side. Wordlessly she offered her hand, which mother clasped. It was nearly time. My chest tightened. Outside this chamber set aside for us, the cathedral was packed. So many who had known my father. So many who respected him.

So many who mourned his loss.

A hand pressed on my shoulder. I turned to find Damrosch. “Everything is ready. Are you? Or do you need more time?” He glanced at my mother.

She caressed my father's folded hands one final time. With great care, she removed his signet ring from his right ring finger. I watched as she lifted my left hand and slid the silver ring on my little finger, the only one thin enough. Then she took a step back and nodded. 

Two men lowered the lid. Nadir's eyes clamped shut at the sound. Too loud in the silence. 

My heart lurched. I wanted to cry out that I wasn't ready. I tried to reach for the handle to stop the coffin from moving. But nothing obeyed. I stood there, clinging to my mother as the pallbearers began their slow procession into the main church. 

I don't remember walking to the pew. The words droned on around us. I heard them, went through the motions. But it felt like the world around me was water instead of air, every action conducted with a mind-numbing slowness that remained unbroken … until the music pierced the veil.

His music. Undeniably my father's work. The requiem Mass drew me from the stupor. I staggered along the currents of his music, clinging to the familiar, selfishly unwilling to let it go. Damrosch's musicians faded into the background as her voice cut through the air. She sang for him. The Stradivarius. His Stradivarius. More perfectly than any human heart, she mourned the loss of her companion. 

Her forlorn cries lingered in my mind, blinding me so that I had not even realized we had processed from the Cathedral the few blocks to the New York Marble Cemetery. In the sea of black I stood beside my mother and Simonetta, staring at the walled grass field. There were no standing stones in this cemetery. Stone plaques lined the walls, recording those who had been laid to rest here. There were vaults beneath. Vaults accessed through tunnels. One cold stone slab below us waited to receive him.

My chest tightened as they carried the coffin inside the little stone shack in the corner. The Dead House. 

The sound of a chisel cutting into stone rang in my memory. The horizon swayed, I had to shut my eyes. Father. Father breaking through that door. The bitter cold. He'd never explained why the men had taken Mother and I. Never explained where they had gone. Only, that they could never harm us again. 

I shivered.

The first notes drifted into the air. I opened my eyes. It was his violin. She sang his music, sang for him. She rose her voice and trembled on the chords of  _ _Libera Me._ _ Delicate and gentle, the current echoed off the walls. I closed my eyes. Father's voice hung in the air. True and clear as always. Just a whisper of that flawless tenor. Mother shivered and stepped closer to me. Had she heard it too?

__ Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna, in die illa tremenda, _ _

__ Quando cœli movendi sunt et terra, _ _

__ Dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem. _ _

__ Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo, dum discussio venerit, atque ventura ira, _ _

__ Quando cœli movendi sunt et terra. _ _

__ Dies illa, dies iræ, calamitatis et miseriæ, dies magna et amara valde, _ _

__ Dum veneris iudicare sæculum per ignem. _ _

__ Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine: et lux perpetua luceat eis. _ _

In the silence that followed, I opened my eyes. Nadir knelt in the grass, weeping into his hands. Mother's dry eyes remained locked on the door of the shack, her hand grasping mine. Simonetta gazed up on the wall of the cemetery. I followed her. There stood Damrosch, with Father's Stradivarius held to his heart. Silent tears rolled down his face.


	5. Chapter Five

_ **Chapter 5** _

_ **** _

__ **~Damrosch~** _ _

Hollow.

That word had never suited the main auditorium of Carnegie Hall. To me it had always been full of possibility. Even with the lights dimmed, the air had been alive with the promise of greatness, the very walls of this place waiting for the curtain to rise and the limelight to shine.

But today, as I stood in the center of that stage, the shadows held no promises. An empty dawn had greeted me after a restless night. I had trudged here burdened by a weight I could not identify.

No. That was a lie.

I shut my eyes in the oppressive silence. 

My arms trembled as I lifted the Stradivarius. His Stradivarius. Heavy, so much heavier than the weight of her parts. A dull ache twisted in my chest as I placed the bow to the strings. 

Her haunted voice pined for her maestro, a nameless lament I had heard him tease from her many times over the years. I'd never mastered it. Never played it the same way he had. But in the darkened auditorium, a current flowed through me. My fingers found their place of their own accord. I swore I felt his fingers on my elbow correcting the angle as he had so many times before …

… and never would again.

The thought delivered a blow to my chest, I held my breath. Tears stung my eyes. The bow faltered and once more silence enveloped me.

If I continued to hold her … oh God, if I dropped her and she broke I could never forgive myself.

I staggered to the stage left chair and dropped to my knees before it. Reverently, I laid her across the seat. The seat of the concert master … the seat he once held. It had been many years since he had relinquished the first chair violin, just shy of a decade since his health had stolen that right from him. I bowed my head. 

“Why, Erik? For the love of music, why?”

The echo of my voice replied. The echo his hands had created. These stones worked feverishly by his own obsessive nature sixteen years ago. He had built this hall and never left her. He had remained, possessing this stage with a presence no one else had ever achieved. 

The old Persian's rambling words rang true now …  _Erik, the Opera Ghost_ . I shivered. How could I have come to know this man and never had comprehended the severity of his past? 

Because … for all his bravado, I had come to learn how painfully shy Erik was at heart. He'd concealed it well from the general public. But inside, there had been a well of fear I had glimpsed over the years. Fear a man of his talent never should have experienced … but … for his face. The mask. The necessity of his mask meant he kept much of the world at a distance.

I understood keenly now how much he compromised in our friendship. How fragile the trust had been over those years.

“You know, for all your genius, sometimes you are a stubborn fool.”

My voice caught painfully in my throat.

“I'm sorry … sorry you are gone.” I stood up under the weight of all that time. “I'm sorry I failed to stop you from the tragic mistake. I would give anything to have another chance to speak with you.”

The auditorium breathed a sigh. 

The abandoned violin lay across the chair in hope for the caress from a pair of hands that would never hold her again … not even in the seclusion of his own home. His requiem had accompanied his spirit passing from this world.

Silence. That was what remained.

A ray of light spread across the floor. Shadows shifted accompanied by footsteps. They halted, hushed voices whispered. One approached my side. “Maestro Damrosch?” Seambrook stared down at the violin in the first chair. “Sir, are we to rehearse today?”

_Would you want us to?_ I closed my eyes.  _Yes. You would insist._

I cleared my throat. “Of course. I was just … please, everyone … take your seats. We will proceed with rehearsing for next week's program.” Striding to my podium I used the motion to cover the deep breaths I took to calm my tattered nerves. I aimlessly shuffled music scores half a dozen times as the orchestra settled and tuned.

When I scanned the orchestra to ensure that all were ready, I noted that among the flutists, Charles was not in attendance. I had expected as much after yesterday's funeral. Something else was different. To my far left one chair stood closer to the front of the stage in its own row. One chair to the right of Seambrook's first violin. That chair was not empty—Erik's violin lay across it as though any moment the man might walk in from the wing and take this seat.

Seambrook sat with his violin propped on his knee. He lowered his eyes somberly. Connolly, Eastwick, Lure, and Jones all mimicked the motion in tribute.

My baton nearly fell from my numb fingers. But … the music, the music must resume. 

“Right. From the top.” 

* * * * *

__ **~Nadir~** _ _

I lifted the meager weight of the blanket off my chest … my arm hovered in the slant of daylight from between the window curtain. It stung my eyes. Eyes parched with no more tears left to cry. Gravity brought my arm back to lie across my chest. 

The strength just wasn't there. My head ached. My body complained where the assailants had struck me. But my chest squeezed like someone had locked me in a vice. A terrible crushing weight continued to press me against the spikes of my failure.

I rubbed my fingers against the scales of the unbroken circle. The unyielding coil of the silver serpent, clutched in my hand, burned against my skin. Was that the heat of guilt? His pendant, the twisted uroboros Erik had worn in the time before our paths crossed … the symbol of triumph over destructive forces, immortality. Another one of his dreadful illusions. Death had claimed him. Erik … was mortal after all. 

My throat closed in a strangled sob. I had failed to save him. The agony in his eyes plagued me, the vision lingered of his desperate hand reaching out for release from that abysmal fate. I could have given him that peace. I could have spared him that final agony. I could have granted him a shred of dignity like he had for … for my son.

Oh Allah! Erik you were so much stronger than I. I knew I couldn't live with the guilt of killing you. Even out of mercy.

If I had known it would hurt this much to carry the pain of watching him stripped of every vestige of dignity … that the weight of not doing it would crush me …

My hands balled into fists. I buried my face in them, feeling the scrape of the tiny chain links of his pendant against my skin. Cold. So cold and unyielding.

I wanted to take his place. To be done with this. If I knew how … but no. There was no chance.

For all the laws he had broken in his time, this was the one law that had defeated the great magician. Erik could not ultimately defy death. 

Death had destroyed him. In its wake, my world had shattered beyond recognition. Each time I reached to pick up the first piece in an attempt to reassemble, it that welling pain drove me back into the shadows of a listless stupor. 

I closed my eyes, holding the little twisted serpent over my heart. Erik's idle lectures replayed as I counted the fine scales. Creation from destruction. New life arising from death. Matter rearranging. 

A question I had never thought to ask … was there a limit to how many times? 

* * * * *

_**~Christine~** _

Bird song drifted, drawing me from my dreamless sleep. I shifted beneath the sheets, relishing their soft pressure on my bare legs. Morning. A sweet breeze bearing the scent of flowers kissed my cheek. Lovely. 

I stretched my hand out under the blankets. Careful, I must be careful as I didn't wish to startle him. My smile faded. The temperature of the sheets remained cool, much cooler than I expected. I opened my eyes and sat up. The clean satin pillowcase was undisturbed. Odd. It had been years since he had been plagued by a restless night. The bedchamber door was slightly open. Perhaps he was in the study, asleep at his desk.

“Erik?” 

No response. 

My head swam in circles, a familiar sensation. Had we quarreled last night? Had I gone to bed angry with him? 

I leaned over to glance at his nightstand in search of an apology rose. My arms locked in place. There was no rose … instead, in the curtained light the glint of glass caught my eye. 

Morphine.

The angry red streaks racing toward his heart … his pitiful cries … his trembling grasp … the final sound of the death rattle. 

I buried my face in his pillow, letting it swallow my screams until no breath remained. Clutching the pillow to my chest, it brought me no comfort. I punched it, the down inside yielded to my assault. Again and again I rammed my fist into it until I lay on my side, tangled in the blanket, panting for breath.

The hinges squeaked open. My maid, Marie, tiptoed to the curtains and drew them back. Her voice timid as she glanced over her shoulder to find me awake. “Madame Daae, it's a lovely morning. Shall I help you dress?”

I rolled my face under the pillow in reply.

“ … or will it be another day of bed rest for you?” She sighed. 

I heard her shoes on the floor as she came to the bedside and put her hand over mine. I jerked back.

“Madame, Charles and Simonetta Daae arrived a bit ago. I've come to tell you they are waiting downstairs for you.”

Too far. I shifted from under the pillow, but clung to it. “I … will see them … here. Bring them in here, please.”

Her eyes widened briefly. She nodded, “As you wish. Shall I tidy up first?” She reached for the needle and bottle on the nightstand.

I latched onto her arm. “No. Leave it.” 

She withdrew, swiftly leaving the room with a worried glance. 

In her absence, I smoothed out the sheets and settled back on my side of the bed, sitting against the pillows with my knees drawn up. I stared at the embroidery on the blanket. Meticulous stitches one after the other. Not a one beautiful in its own right, but they added up to create a captivating image of elegant roses.

I realized I was no longer alone when Simonetta embraced me in a warm hug. “Mother Daae. It's so good to see you.”

Charles gazed at the other side of the bed before he took a seat on the end of mine. He fixated on his hands. His fingers spun the signet ring on his left hand. “I hope we find you well, Mother.”

“I am as well as can be expected, I suppose.” I reached out and brushed his ashen fingers. His preoccupation remained. I knew what plagued him. “Charles, there is no hurry.”

He shook his head. “We have decided. We've sold our house. I will be accepting the inheritance of  _Clef de Voute Manoir_ after all. Mother, I promise you will be well taken care of. I would never—”

“I know. That was never a concern of mine. I meant what I said. You and Simonetta are welcome to move in here as soon as you are ready. I think I would like the company.” I tried to offer her a smile. Seated on the side of the bed, she squeezed my hand.

“This is a lot of responsibility. I never realized how much Father had.” Charles's complexion was pale in the sunlight. Pale like Erik.

“You have time to learn.” I reached up and brushed his cheek. 

He sighed. “Not as much as you think.” He glanced at Simonetta. Her fingers tightened in my hand and there was a glint of excitement in her eyes as she watched him. He nodded.

She turned to me and whispered, “I'm with child.”

I fell into embracing her, tears of joy welling in my eyes. A birth of our first grandchild … I froze, unable to interrupt the sob.

“Mother … what's wrong?” 

I choked on my words. “He … he'll never get to see our grandchild. He would have … ” I stared at the empty place beside me. Torture. I could no longer bear this. I shut my eyes. “Please. I am … happy for you … it's just … ” I fought the lump in my throat and recomposed myself. “Simonetta, I insist you and Charles use this bed chamber.”

“Mother Daae, we couldn't. This is yours.”

I placed a hand on hers. “No. This place has need of new memories now. There are other rooms here. Ones with less memories. Lingering here is doing me no good. This is the master chamber. It belongs to Charles now.” 

He glanced at the ring on his hand. “Only if you are sure.”

“I am. And I insist. Now, you two have much to arrange.”

Charles embraced me in a long hug. “I will always provide for you.”

“I have never doubted you, Son.” 

As they departed, I lay back in the bed, my hand traveling to where Erik used to lie beside me. Alone. That somber reality cast a pall over what should have been a joyous occasion. I heaved a sigh and closed my eyes.


	6. Chapter Six

_ **Chapter 6** _

_ **** _

__ **~Charles~** _ _

I drifted through my fath— _my_ study. Days had passed since Simonetta and I had settled in the manor. Nothing was as I had remembered. And yet … nothing had truly changed. 

His ring was a millstone grinding steadily into my consciousness. All this was now mine. This vast mansion with empty rooms. The library and laboratory, both places of wonder in my youth. The music room with all its scores and instruments waiting to be played. The beautiful rooftop garden where I would watch my father tending the blooms. 

So many secrets shared under the starlight. How we would sit for hours in idle chatter. I grasped the back of the chair at the marble topped desk, still cluttered with his ledgers. 

I would never hear his counsel again. Because some vile creature had committed the ultimate act of cowardice and shot him in the back. He'd never had a chance. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the stone chip. This morning I had stepped on it near the end of the bed. 

Un-worked marble. From a good vein. Though I was no mason, I remembered a few things Father had taught me on the trips to the quarry. In fact, this looked by the color as though it was from his oldest one on the north end of the island, the one near the Stonecutter's hamlet. I turned the piece over and over. Why would someone have gone to lengths to retrieve this?

The clatter of a tray caught my attention. I turned to find Marie setting out a plate. “Monsieur Daae, it is afternoon. The cook thought you might take your meal here since you had not been down?”

I glanced at the mantel clock. Good heavens, it was already past two. “I shall have to apologize to Mother for missing it.”

She looked at her folded hands. 

“Another day?”

She pointed up at the roof. “She went to the garden earlier today. When I came to ask about lunch, I found her seated between the roses. I could not get two words from her. Forgive my impertinence, but the widow Daae is not herself.”

Good, she had  _finally_ left her room. I crossed the room with a sigh. “There is nothing forgive. None of us are ourselves these days. Thank you for keeping an eye on her.”

“Monsieur, there is another concern.” She glanced up at me. “It is Nadir.”

I stiffened a bit. The old man had taken a good pounding. But he had attended the funeral with only the aid of his cane. He had seemed alright. I had to wonder if he had begun barking orders at the staff. Without my father to harp at, he would likely need a new target.

In my silence, she flicked a look down the a staircase behind her. “He has not left his room. He lies abed all day. We bring him food, try to entice him to eat. But he barely cooperates.”

“The man is in mourning. He and my father were very close.” At the moment I hated that milquetoast. If any was to blame for the loss, it was him. He should have been watching. He should have cried foul! He should have stopped this from happening. 

“Monsiuer.” She bowed her head. 

I cleared my throat and changed the subject. Nadir was the last thing I wanted to talk about. “Marie, you have been here a long time, yes?”

She nodded, a shimmer of fear in her eyes. “Yes sir. Please, you are not thinking of letting me go. I love serving the sweet Madame Daae.”

“No. That's not why I ask.” I studied the stone chip. “Where would my father have kept his private journals?”

“I … I am not certain. The staff was forbidden from entering much of the private spaces without his invitation. Those were his rules.”

“And I am sure you kept to them. But still, in cleaning or passing through at some point, did you ever see a shelf somewhere odd? A trunk?” Why was I even asking her? I didn't even know. He had never done any such writing in front of me.

“Monsieur Erik retired to many places in which he could have done so. He was a secretive man and these walls have kept those secrets even from us. I am sorry, sir, but I don't know where to even begin to search.”

I became aware I was spinning the ring and forced my hands to my side. “Thank you, Marie.”

For the hundredth time, I searched the shelves for some sign of the journals. But, if they had been here, Nadir would have struggled to access them. Father was here most of the time. That meant they needed to be elsewhere.

She took a step toward me and pensively asked, “If it is not too much to ask, what do you think you might find?”

“Perhaps some clue to Father's murder. Now, if you will excuse me.”

“Of course.” She curtsied. 

I headed past her with a purpose. A purpose … I hadn't the faintest clue of where to look. Not his music room. Occasionally people were in there. The same with his library, he granted occasional favors to some. No. Someone might have stumbled on them there. My steps echoed through the staircase. I made my way to the third story. This was by far the most private section. Perhaps here? 

These rooms seemed so hollow already. The greenhouse full of the delicate herbs he had cultivated for his potions. Things to help him sleep. If any had grown ill in this house, Father usually had something to get them through it. But that room had too many windows. And a nosy neighbor to the south. No. That would not have been the room.

I passed the darkened laboratory. The shelves were filled with his inventions. I could not banish my smile as I glimpsed the generator he had brought down the night I learned not to fear lightning. I wandered along the benches scattered with the machines and experiments. Glass vials and burners. All of this had been his. I had hardly a clue what to do with most of it. Likely would kill myself in the process.

There were books here. Periodicals of all sorts that had indeed been well thumbed through. Cabinet after cabinet full of references … I halted. Through the glass cabinet door I discovered a series of leather-bound journals, my father's elaborate handwriting on the bindings, in French. 

I opened the door and pulled one out. Yes. All of it was in French. Flipping through, it looked like he had been scribbling down notes while constructing something. The edges of the pages were marred a dark speckled brown. I skimmed through the bits about measurements. Calculations for water pumps. The quick sketch of a section of a building caught my eye. I stared at it. 

I knew this place!

“ _Merde_!” Book in hand, I flew down the stairs and practically tripped into the study as I failed to swing around the corner. 

On the wall, I remembered there had been three framed drafts. One was this mansion, one was Carnegie Hall … it was the last one I was after. I held the sketch up to it. It matched. The Grand Escalier of the Paris Opera … but that wasn't the name he had written there.  _Academie Imperiale de Musique_ … the Royal Academy of Music.

I had found them. By the events he was describing, Father had penned this sometime around the early 1860's when he was working secretly under Garnier. My God, this was a detailed account including workmen, the dealings with the government concerning the project, his day-to-day progress. Everything recorded in tedious precision. 

In that cabinet, there were scores of them. I pulled the stone chip from my pocket.

“Perhaps one will explain your significance.” I cleared off the desk and dashed back up to the laboratory for the first stack of journals.


	7. Chapter Seven

_ **Chapter 7** _

_ **** _

__ **~Christine~** _ _

ERIK VAULT No. 43

I stared through the black lace of my veil at the bitter letters chiseled into the cold stone tablet. He wasn’t behind it. This tablet on the cemetery wall merely kept a record of where he had been interred. I knew the precise place where his vault was in the field. Some years ago, Erik had taken me here to show me. At the time I had thought it another one of his morbid tendencies. Now, I was grateful for the knowledge. Even though I could not bear to look at that patch of grass.

“This is real.” I traced the lines of his name. 

E. “I know that. But I don’t want to believe it.” 

R. “It’s sad. The worst part of this.” 

I. “For your death certificate, they asked me for your date of birth. I couldn’t tell them for certain, only the vague estimation you once gave me.”

My voice faltered. I had to take a few breaths before tracing the last letter. K. “Summer 1831.”

With my finger still in the groove, I stared at my garnet and diamond ring. “No. As shameful as that was, it truly wasn’t the worst.” My hand clamped tight. “The other date … May 23 rd  that … oh God, Erik … the day you gave me this. Why did you have to leave me on the anniversary of the day you gave me your heart?”

I leaned against the wall and slid down, taking refuge into the black fabric of my mourning gown. My shawl failed to protect me from the chill in the air. Perhaps it wasn’t the air at all that caused me to shiver. “Why did you abandon me? This isn’t fair! Don’t leave me here alone, Angel. I’m frightened, I can’t face this darkness without you.”

A chill wind stirred my veil. The dull ache in my chest eased. A strange disconnection invaded my senses. I was floating, drifting on a tide of serenity … I remembered this. I opened my eyes, surrounded by a mist. Notes fell from the air like a soft rain. A violin beckoned in the distance. 

I clutched the shawl tightly. What cruelty was this? What man would dare to mock me in my sorrow, to tease my soul with such a poignant reminder?

The music persisted, invading every sense. The flight of notes evoked the sound of wings. I knew why … this piece was from  _the Aviary_ , Erik’s master symphony. Haunted by the strains, I curled into myself. I couldn’t bear to listen … but the captivation refused to let me go.

The violin’s call intensified above my head. A cascade of pebbles rained down accompanied by a flutter of wings.

_“ Christine.”_

I stiffened. His voice. There was no mistaking that timbre. That voice cast a silken thread into my consciousness. I latched onto it and lifted my head.  _Don’t let this be a lie. I can’t take the heartbreak._

I held my breath until my heart threatened to burst before I dared to open my eyes.

Atop the edge of the stone wall he stood. Dressed in his finely tailored suit with a vest deep blue as the night. Violin in hand, he coaxed the melody from the Stradivarius. He stood with a vitality I had not witnessed in years. The grace that had once mesmerized me commanded his every gesture. Two immense wings, like those of a black swan, framed him. He withdrew the bow with a smile.

“Erik!” It took every bit of my breath for that one word. And several more breaths to catch. I could not speak.

He delivered an elegant bow with a sweep of one wing. “My dear, all this sorrow is quite unnecessary. Dry your tears and cease that sobbing. Come, come, on your feet now.”

“But … but you died.” I breathed into my hand, the world swirling around me.

“Indeed. I did. But, you can plainly see there is no call for all this lamenting.” He leaned back and stretched his wings to their full span. “It appears the Lord and I have come to an agreeable arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” I rose to my feet and stumbled to the wall. Without it I would have fallen.

Erik chuckled dryly, “It appears He was in need of a certain angel. An Angel of Music, to be precise.”

Once more I ceased to breathe. Could this be true?

“As it turns out, perhaps I was a bit shortsighted with Him after all. When you consider what I had envisioned as my eternal fate … well, let us just say, my dear, this is a vast improvement. More than you imagine.” He reached up and removed the white mask from his face.

It was flawless. Exactly like the handsome bust he had carved to make his masks. It was the face of the man I had seen in my dreams. Erik. Unhindered, unshackled from the shame he had never found the strength to accept. The most alluring part was his eyes. Two bright blue eyes met my gaze. 

I reached up to touch him. 

He flapped his wings and glided over my head, landing behind me with hardly a sound. His arms spread wide as I ran into them, slamming into his embrace. We rocked backward as he caught me.

Whole. I felt whole again. “You’re real.” I brushed a finger on his face. Warm and soft. 

“Of course I am real.” His chest expanded against my ear with the sound of a healthy breath. One feathered wing wrapped tightly around us. “Who else would I visit first than the one who made this possible.”

I ran my fingers over the feathers, watching them spring back into place. A part of him. A part that was always a part of him … to me. He had always been my angel. “I didn’t do this.”

He traced my chin, pulling my gaze to his. “You belittle yourself. It was your faith, my dear. Your faith in my soul that made it possible to banish my curse.”

“Mine?”

“God heard your prayers for my soul.” He bowed, our foreheads touched. His breath stirred my hair. “It was you who challenged my fate.”

I embraced him and tangled my fingers in his raven hair. Not silver, but the stark black he had possessed when I first met him. Thousands of words flooded my mind. So much to say and yet none of it formed a single sentence. None but this. “My love. My Angel of Music.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Always.”

I lay against his chest, listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat. In the sky the stars shimmered, looking down on us. Idly Erik named them as I drank every syllable of his voice like an inebriate. It didn’t matter what he said, only that he spoke.

When he fell silent, I interlaced my fingers with his and turned so I could watch him. “Erik, sing for me.”

He stroked my hair and began to hum softly. I closed my eyes to the tune. When he sang, the words were unknown to me, a tender song he had often sung while cradling me when a nightmare had plagued my sleep. I regretted never asking him to translate it for me. To ask now … would break the spell. I longed for nothing more than to remain in his embrace, adrift on the euphoria of his voice. 

* * * * *

_**~Charles~** _

The oil lamp on the desk guttered and dashed the pages into obscurity. I blinked. My eyes itched. Had I been staring? I could hardly recall where I had been reading on these pages. The flame guttered again and died. I threw a curse into the air.

“Charles?” Simonetta approached me from the bedchamber door. Her silk robe clung to her body. In the dim light I could see it now. No one else would have. But I knew her every curve and the slight change of her belly was new. 

Guilt washed over me. Had I woken her? Outside the night had settled without me being the wiser. I caught my head in my hands.

She rubbed my shoulders. “Darling, come to bed. Please. You’ve been at this for days now.”

I shook my head. “The man wrote every confounded thing down. I should have known with his eye for detail, but for heaven’s sake, this is more of a monumental task than I imagined. I found eight more shelves worth when I went back up. And of course, I had to bungle bringing them down. They’re all mixed up. Years worth of his rambling, out of order.”

“It can wait.” She tugged on my arm.

I slapped my hand down on the desk, recalling the last thing I read now. “Did you know Father came over the Atlantic in November? Do you know what it’s like to travel by ship?”

“No, Charles, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I came over on an ocean steamer in April. It was misery in the cabin. The deck rocked and swayed constantly. My stomach churned like the ocean after the propellers. I nearly vomited every meal. Spent a good amount of time bundled in a blanket in my bunk. It wasn’t even that cold, and I felt wretched.” I picked up the journal and shook my head. “You see this?” I flipped through the dozens of pages.

She nodded. “My love, you know I don’t read French.”

“Day by day account of the crossing. Every tedious detail of him and that petulant Persian as they stowed away in the cargo hold. A _cargo hold_, Simonetta! Not even a cabin, because they couldn’t risk the proper channels. In the freezing November, he idled away that week by counting his crystalline breaths and listening to the Persian whine about the conditions. And yet, it was Nadir who had arranged their passage. They nearly froze on their way here.”

Wearily she closed the journal. “They didn’t. Now, come to bed.”

I pushed back from the desk and staggered to my feet. “But they could have! And then, then I never would have known him.  _Merde_! Do you know how many times that came close to happening? And I haven’t even read half of these.”

She took my hand and rubbed the back of it. “Please, Charles. This has consumed you since you found them. You need to rest.”

I threw her grasp away. “I need to find my father’s murderer!”

“Go to the police.”

“I can’t. How many times must I explain this to you. Father was dueling. Dueling is illegal.”

She heaved a sigh. “Two men were murdered. They can’t ignore it.”

“They were paid to ignore it! No. The only one who can bring justice to my father is me. You need to understand that.”

“Charles, you’re exhausted. Please, just come to bed.”

The chair fell over with a thump as I kicked it aside. “You don’t understand!” I stormed out of the room. That chatter did nothing to aid me. I couldn’t rest until I solved this. Until I had made the man responsible pay. 

Blindly I dashed through the halls until I found myself on the rooftop. The heady scent of the flowers filled the night air. Drawn to the balustrade, I slammed my elbows down on it and rested my forehead in my open palms.

“Of all the stupid, ignorant, ridiculous … gah. You really did botch this up, Father.”

“I was hardly perfect, Son. I made mistakes.”

I scowled at him. He stood next to me, leaning on the stonework. A set of magician orbs idly turned in his hand as he gazed out over lower Manhattan. “Mistakes? Damn right you made mistakes. You were an arrant ass at times.”

He shrugged. “Hindsight has the power of perfect perception that the heat of the moment lacks. It is easy to cast stones at the past.”

“Don’t you dare mince words with me, Father! Don’t you dare! Murdering men, manipulating others to do your will, stealing, playing ghost! You painted a lovely picture of yourself for me, but you left out a monumental list of details.”

Beneath the mask, he winced. His empty hand reached up to brush the lock of silver tarnished hair from his temple. I wasn’t prepared for the shame in his gaze as his mismatched eyes locked with mine. “You mean … my regrets.”

“It doesn’t matter what you call them.” I jabbed him in the chest so hard he scrambled to catch one of the orbs. “The illusion is shattered.”

Father sighed and slipped the hand with the orbs into his cloak. When he returned his hand to the balustrade, it was empty. “You were not meant to have seen all of that.”

“Then why did you write it? Why did you leave me in a position where I had to?”

“A heart can only hold so much. Over the ages, writing it out seemed my only release. The only touch I had with reality. The dreams and truths crossed over one another too often for me to know. In those words, written in my lucid moments, I knew what I could trust. Knew what was real and what was nothing more than one of my twisted nightmares. That was difficult enough for me to grasp. You have already deduced as much, Charles.”

I grabbed the collar of his jacket and forced him to met my heated gaze. “But you left us all in some ridiculous notion of honor.”

He didn’t resist. A somber smile appeared beneath the curve of his mask. “You do not understand yet. You do not really know me.”

“I want to!” I shook him so hard, his teeth rattled. “Damn it, I want to. Why didn’t you let me get closer?”

He waited for me to stop before he loosened my grip and pushed my hands to my sides. The compulsion to look in his eyes overwhelmed me. “Because, for a time you distanced us. I tried to reach you. Remember? It was you who abandoned me.”

“No.” I balled my fist and would have struck him had he not held my wrist. “No … ” But even as I denied it, I knew he was telling the truth. I choked on my words. Precious time squandered by a foolish boy. Not once, but twice. My knees threatened to drop me.

“Hindsight.” He sighed and held me up.

“I have to … I have to find out who did this.”

Father nodded, guiding me back to the balustrade.

“They’re out there. The men who killed you. Hiding somewhere. I can’t let them get away with this. I must bring peace to Mother or I can’t live with myself.”

“Then,” he stated resolutely, “you know what you must do, my son.”

I shut my eyes, overwhelmed by the city lights. 

Somewhere in the darkness … 

* * * * *

_**~Christine~** _

The aroma of myrrh filled my lungs. I opened my eyes, facing his pillow. There, in the center, the satin petals of a smokey rose bloom waited. The strands of a red ribbon tied in a bow trailed down toward me.

I crawled my fingers from beneath the blanket, the journey across the cool sheets seemed to take eons. A drop of dew clung to the dark lavender petal. The moment I brushed the stem, it trailed down landing on the pillow with a  _plop_ .

I closed my eyes and brought the bloom to my chest despite the scratch of the thorns. “I forgive you, my Angel of Music. I forgive you.”


	8. Chapter Eight

__ **Chapter 8** _ _

__ **** _ _

__ **~Damrosch~** _ _

 

I lowered the baton to the uproarious applause. The Symphony Society had earned it. Every piece, to the very last, played with precision and passion. After the orchestra took their bows, they remained standing. The applause trickled off into respectful silence.

 

My steps echoed as I crossed to stage left and came to a halt before the chair at the right of Seambrook's. I bowed my head. In the polished stage I glimpsed the other musicians bow in unison. Carefully, I picked up the lone Stradivarius and proceeded through the stage wing door.

 

In the shadows Henry waited for me with the leather case. I reverently laid her with her bow inside and handed him the key. “My office—locked in the safe. You know where to leave the key.”

 

Behind me, the orchestra had nearly filed off the stage. Soon they would be attending the after concert celebration. I searched the faces, but I had apparently missed my chance. 

 

There was no time to waste lingering here in false hope. I would be missed by the crowd. Sometimes being a director was a trifle frustrating. The moment I pressed into the throng of the audience, already enjoying the spirits, I was peppered by handshakes and complements. A tide of remarks one after the next mired my progress. I found it hard to keep my glances a secret as I looked through the crowd, hoping for a chance … and fortune, at last, favored me. I excused myself and rushed after his back, catching Charles by his shoulder. He spun and stared at me with glassy eyes.

 

“Charles, I wanted to … ”

 

“Damrosch, my good man!” Walsh snatched my hand and shook it until my elbow nearly snapped. “What a spectacular concert, as always.”

 

I forced a smile and hastily replied, “Thank you, Walsh. I wasn't expecting you here. I thought you were in England with your wife.”

 

“Oh, well we returned yesterday. You know, plans do change,” the man continued sedately.

 

I glanced at Charles who fortunately, remained where I had halted him, staring into the crowd idly. “Well, delightful to see you. I really must … ”

 

“Tell me Damrosch, I am curious about that chair. The one toward the front of the stage. I know little about orchestra set ups, but I do say I have never seen a seat to the right of the violin section on its own. And with a violin without a player, no less.”

 

“Ah, well, that was a tribute the musicians paid to a member who has passed away.”

 

“Oh dear. Who?”

 

I glanced down, gesturing. “Erik. Charles Daae's father.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He was murdered,” Charles muttered.

 

I held up a hand too late.

 

Walsh looked with a start. “Great heavens, how?”

 

Charles's lip curled into a snarl. I stepped into him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I beg your pardon, but this is truly not a subject for polite company. Now, if you will excuse us.” As swiftly as I could, I pulled Charles through the crowd. We headed directly for my office. 

 

Behind the closed door I watched him drop into the chair on the other side of my desk, his unfocused gaze on the floor.

 

“I've been trying to speak with you since you returned to rehearsals. But you always manage to slip away. Don't misunderstand me, I am glad to see you play again … but you worry me.”

 

“Leave me alone, Walter.” My God, the voice was empty. He slumped in the chair. His hands gripping his knees seemed all that to hold him up. 

 

“When was the last time you slept?”

 

When he looked up at me I could not ignore the dark circles puffing beneath his eyes. How had he managed to play his flute? “Last night,” he muttered distantly. “I fell asleep at the desk for a few hours.”

 

That explained the crease on the side of his face. “A few hours? Charles, you need more than that. Have you looked in the mirror?”

 

He huffed a breath. Like father - like son. He was a portrait of the over-ambitious man I once knew.

 

“Good Lord, I don't know whether to fetch a doctor to diagnose you, or a priest to exorcise you.”

 

“I'm fine,” he grumbled.

 

“No, you're not. If you think I have not seen this before, you are sorely mistaken. I just hope you listen to me better than your father did.”

 

His hands kneaded the fabric of his pants. “It's all in there. If you had read what I read, you would be haunted too.”

 

“What? What are you talking about?”

 

“Father's journals.” His glassy eyes drifted around the room, never settling on anything. “No wonder he was so jaded with humanity. The hatred, the anger, the distrust. My God, it all makes sense now. Every scar. He wrote down in detail every savage beating he took at their hands. The harsh words they cast at him like knives. The brutal attempts to take his life. I could not have stood through just one of those countless events. Yet, he endured. I was so wrong. So cruel to him. The things I said without knowing … the things that cut him to the core because he had not told me.”

 

“Charles.”

 

He continued, rocking a bit in the chair. “I didn't know. I didn't know what he'd been through. I'd seen the marks left behind. But it never connected. I never thought of the pain. The humiliation. It was worse, so much worse than any nightmare I've ever had.”

 

“Charles, please.”

 

“I was such a fool—”

 

“Charles!” I clamped my hands on his arms and made him look at me. “What are you doing reading his journals?”

 

“I have to find his murderer.”

 

I hung my head. “And you think it's in there?”

 

“I know it is!”

 

I stepped away from him and ran my hand through my hair. “I understand why you feel compelled to do this … ”

 

“No you—”

 

“Let me finish, please. I understand. But look at yourself. You are obsessing to the point it's making you ill.”

 

He leaned forward and blurted, “I have to make them pay! The answer is in his journals. I just have to find it!”

 

“And what will you do if you manage to tease it out and in the process, it drives you to madness? Or if you die of fever from neglect? Think, man. Think!”

 

His hands clamped on the sides of his head mussing his hair. He growled into his lap.

 

I forced him to look me in the eyes. There was nothing there. “Charles. I can't bear two empty chairs in my orchestra.”

 

That struck him like a blow. He sat bolt upright, his weary eyes half closing. I let it sink in until his breathing evened out. Then I knelt before him. “Many years ago, I made a solemn promise to Erik that I would look out for his only son's welfare. I have kept that promise. Even now. For God's sake, go home. Get some sleep in your bed.”

 

He sagged against my hand in defeat.

 

“This isn't over. But it will end badly if you keep pushing yourself like this. I respect you too much to let you commit to that.” I took his hand and helped him up. “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

 

“But, the party … ”

 

“There will be more of those. And I intend to ensure more with you.”

 

As we walked down the hall he half smiled, a dry chuckle escaped him. “ _ Merde _ , I bet this is familiar.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“But … but I'm shorter. Was it harder dragging my father home?”

 

I jerked a look at him. He was barely walking at my side. “Did he really write about that?”

 

He nodded with little coordination. 

 

My thoughts cast back to struggling under Erik's exhausted stagger. What had he remembered of those plagued days when this world had pushed him to the brink? I had to laugh as I patted Charles's shoulder. “You have no idea.”

 


	9. Chapter Nine

_ **Chapter 9** _

_ **** _

__ **~Charles~** _ _

I should have rung for a servant instead of fetching the kerosene myself. But it was the middle of the night and I shouldn't have still been awake. For years I had wondered why Father had never converted the house to electric light. His laboratory had been wired, and he had certainly fitted commissions with it. Yet his own house remained lit by gaslight, oil lamps, and candles. 

It made sense now after the passages I had read describing the cruel light electricity cast on him. He rendered the flame a kind friend, offering more shadows to hide him. I walked down the deserted halls some vague hour after midnight, guided by a single candle shielded in glass. Father always taught me to respect fire.

Descending the stairs into the vast cellar, I felt the chill in the air reaching into my house jacket. It didn't matter the season, the temperature down here never seemed to change. Tucked in the rows of arched alcoves was everything needed to run the manor. One held bottles and barrels of various wines and spirits, all secured in racked cradles. Another alcove held preserved fruits in numerous forms. But I was not after food or drink. Somewhere, in these darkened chambers, I would find where the staff stocked the kerosene.

My candle's flame was no match for the oppressive black. The edges of the light brushed against the arch of the center corridor, leaving only a faint outline. I had to lean into each alcove and hold the candle aloft to see what was inside. 

“Well, here's the sacks of grain. Flour.” I sighed, “Father wouldn't have the stored something so flammable near the kerosene. He knew better. So it must be further down.”

I turned around and froze. The dim light hinted of something other than shelves in the alcove across the way. I stepped back into the corridor and my jaw hung open. A thick metal door blocked the entrance. The bar latch on it bore the scrapes of use, perhaps the sliding of a lock now no longer present? 

Could it be? I pushed it open. The hinges vibrated and groaned in disuse. The weak flame of my candle reached out to find nothing. I had to step inside. Stale air mingled with fresh through the opening. Deeper. I walked deeper, waiting for the light to find the rear wall. My heart pounded. No … this had to be something else …it couldn't be … 

The light picked out a thick iron ring set in stone … then another. 

My throat tightened. The chains were gone. But their relentless scuffed paths across the stone floor remained. 

I had never seen this place. I had never ventured down to see where they had secured him after that night … that night that he … My fingers toyed with the cuff of my shirt. A slight scar remained where his signet ring had struck bone, lacerating me. The night he lost the battle for his sanity and Nadir locked him down here so he could harm no one else until they could cure him. A tumor … a brain tumor had been plaguing him without anyone being the wiser. 

I approached the iron ring and traced the cold metal. When I lifted it, the rust sprinkled onto the floor. The shriek of it breaking loose echoed in the corridors.

What had his cries sounded like down here bouncing off the bare stone? I sunk down and sat against the wall as he would have been forced to.

His cries. I swore I could hear them … I shivered. The last pages I had read suddenly became real. Not this time. I had found little of this. Father had said the illness had spared him memories of his imprisonment. This was something else … something far more unsettling.

On the pages his writing had changed. Another voice seemed to invade. The terrifying night that Mother and I had been taken, Father's account was vastly different from my own. I remembered only stumbling over the debris of the Dead House's oak door, followed by a hazy ride on a horse to someone elses home.

Whenever I had asked him what had happened, he grew taciturn. In the pages of his journal  _that voice_ lashed out on the page. He described a creature, a monster _within_ him gnawing away at his control, a lock on a door he had released in an act of weak desperation … to save us.

The wake, a savage pool of slaughter. Men from his past in Persia had come for vengeance and he had ended their lives.

These men could not have been responsible for the duel. There was no surviving what Father had done … what the beast  within him had carried out. That had been years ago. And yet … they had taken forty years to act, by Father's estimate. 

Enemies. His travels had earned him countless enemies. Men he had wronged personally, men who detested his appearance, men who seethed with jealousy for his gifts. 

The cold wicked into me from the floor. Mere minutes in this … cell and the desire to flee overwhelmed me. He had been isolated here for nearly a year, with only that wretched voice as his company. 

His wrists bore the chaffing from the shackles for the rest of his life. Chaffing from trying to break free … from  _having_ succeeded, more than once, at breaking free!

Seeing his madness from the outside had been unbearable. Witnessing it through his eyes became an intolerable feat.

Regret pulled my gaze to the floor. “I should have done more … ”

“What would you have done?”

I stared at his shoes. Shamefully, nothing came to me. I had spent that year doing everything possible to ignore his plight. “Come here … ”

“I likely would have killed you. Remember Nadir's leg? If I had no compunction to savage a friend, what makes you think I would have spared you?” Those words echoed with apathy against the stone.

My hand gripped my knee. The candle flame guttered as I shivered. “But I didn't even try to reach you.”

“You would not have succeeded.” He knelt before me. “The grip that plagued me had been too strong, my fight too long. I had exhausted all control.”

In the silence, I imagined some voice rasping away at my consciousness. A never ending droning eating away at my resolve just as he described. The flame danced wildly in my hand. I had to set it on the floor, worried I would drop it. 

“Charles, cease your fretting. That demon was entirely my own.”

I curled tighter against the wall, the rough stone dug through my clothing, cold metal holding me fast to the wall.

His hands gripped my shoulder. “Look at me.” His mismatched eyes commanded my attention. “My life is not your life. You must always remember that.”

“But … ”

“My burdens were never yours to bear.”

“I never understood … ”

“And I never found the words to explain. That is my mistake. Not yours.” 

I touched the cuff of his shirt and pushed it back. The scars. They were there. “This … this wasn't right. We shouldn't have chained you down here.”

“Then, my son, you would have perished.”

“It was cruel.”

“It was necessary.” His eyes wouldn't let me go. “I still loved you. All of you. But the true version of me was so lost to this world, he could not conquer the possession you saw. That monster would have destroyed everything I treasured.”

“Father I … ”

He pulled me to my feet and clutched me to him, resting his head on mine. “Tread carefully, my gentle son. This world is a harsh place. Do not let it compromise you.”

“It's taking too long.” I had to catch my breath, my hand brushed the buttons on his vest. “Too long to find anything that hints at your murderer. Who did it? Who took you from me?”

He shook his head.

My fist struck him square in the chest. “Who took you! Tell me!”

Silence pervaded. My hand stung. I opened my eyes to find the wall in front of me. In the candlelight, I stared at a large scrape on the side of my fist. Rocky debris clung to it.

“Why … why won't you tell me?” My voice echoed in the alcove, imprisoned by the iron door.

_ * * * * * _

__ **~Simonetta~** _ _

I nibbled on the edge of my toast, hardly tasting the marmalade jelly. It was all I could do, if I kept my eyes on my breakfast I could ignore the empty chairs. And still, it did little to quell my nerves. I brought a hand up to cover my mouth as my stomach churned. Oh please don't let me disgrace myself. I knew I shouldn't have tried to eat that bacon. But I had hoped it would help. I needed to eat, and yet I couldn't quite manage it.

“Madame? Is everything all right?” Marie bent down at my side. “Is something wrong with the food?”

“No.” I tried to smile up at her. “It is simply … not agreeing with me today.” I took a deep breath, and this time, I could not help but glimpse their empty chairs. My head bowed as I folded my hands on the table.

“Would you prefer something else?” she asked timidly.

“Don't trouble yourself. I don't think it would make any difference.”

Marie nodded and stepped back with a soft sigh. “I dressed the Widow Daae this morning.”

That made me truly smile. “It is a blessing every morning she is out of bed.”

“Indeed.” She paused for a moment, gazing out the window. “The sun was hardly up when she took the carriage to the cemetery.”

The smile faded. “That is the third time this week.”

“The fourth, Madame,” Marie corrected me somberly. “She leaves clutching a rose and smiling wistfully. It is … disturbing.”

My stomach turned over again. I pushed my plate aside, the scent of the food making it worse. “She is in mourning. People handle it in different ways.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“I know you didn't. There is little we can do for her at the moment but be here.” I folded my hands in my lap. “Marie, I need you to do something for me.”

She curtsied neatly. “Anything you need.”

“I need you to prepare the special tea for Charles and bring it to the master bedchamber. He is with chill this morning.”

“The one with the cayenne pepper, Madame? To warm him?”

I nodded trying to keep my breathing even.

“Then what I heard was true.” She stepped forward and continued with a hushed voice. “When they fetched the bacon he **was** found in the cellar this morning. I heard he was curled on the floor with a spent candle in _that_ room. Had the door not been left ajar, which is unusual, no one would have even noticed. They say that chamber is haunted. Many of the staff have heard cries down there.”

“Many years ago.”

“Oh no, Madame. Over the years. Even after! They say that something lingers down there in the darkness. An evil essence you can feel stalking you. That's why many of the servants draw straws as to who has the duties to fetch things. No one wants to go down there.”

“That is quite enough of those ridiculous rumors. There is nothing unusual about the cellar. Charles is up in his bed resting now and he needs tending.” God-willing he would remain there.

“Of course.” She curtsied again, nearly tripping over her feet in haste. “I hope it is not serious.”

“That is what the tea is for.” I stood and fixed her with a weary gaze. “To ensure it does not become so. Bring it up once it is ready.”

My thoughts circled in a vicious cycle around his harried appearance. The haunted look in his eyes as I had tucked him beneath the covers. I climbed the steps, my hand encircled the cross around my neck and I began to whisper, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee … ”

* * * * *

_**~Christine~** _

The white rose bud rested in his grasp. I lay beside him, beneath his wing, dappled in the sun of the forest glade. Around us, birds chanted in a chorus.

Enchanted. There was no other word.

Softly Erik began to sing. The bud trembled at his voice. The melody toyed with it, rising and falling. Slowly the petals began to open, blushing a deep brilliant crimson.

“That, my love, is true magic.” He presented the mature bloom to me. “No mere illusion.”

I inhaled the aroma and rested my head on his arm. “Your voice was always magical.”

He laughed and shifted the wing. The feathers brushed against my shoulder, black silk.

“Erik, can you fly?”

“Of course. Have I not shown you?”

I turned so I could see his beautiful matching eyes. Blue like the spring sky. “Could you carry me?”

He slowly sat up and flapped his wings. His expression contorted for a few experimental strokes. “Perhaps. Why? Did you want to see what it is like?” He held out a hand.

I tucked the rose into my hair and clasped his hand, pulling myself into his waiting arms. “You know I would go anywhere with you.”

Under the surge of his powerful wings, we rose into the air above the forest. I laid my head against his chest, cradled in his embrace. His world stretched out beneath us, shimmering with magic.


	10. Chapter Ten

 

_ **Chapter 10** _

_ **** _

_**~Charles~** _

 

I snapped the newspaper over the tea cup on the desk. If I never had cayenne pepper again in my life it would be too soon. How much warmer did I need to be? I'd already spent the day and night wedged beneath the blankets with that concoction funneled down my throat.

 

I did not want another cup.

 

Paging through the columns, I hardly paid them any attention. The usual drivel, there was only one thing I searched for. News that Snodgrass's body had been found. And as usual, I was disappointed. With a grunt, I crumpled the paper and was about to discard it. The words Black Dog caught my attention.

 

Snatching the page back up, I skimmed the article. The report read that he had been sighted in a few pubs down in the Five Points district. The police were looking for him in connection with a fist fight that left a burned down tavern. I memorized the list of sightings.

 

Five Points. I sat up. Was there some chance he would be there? A chance for answers.

 

I practically flew down the staircase to the stables and hastily saddled my Morgan, Drifter. Stable master Jacques must have been up at the quarry with the horses. That suited me just fine. I didn't want to explain where I was going. I turned Drifter's head to the southeast and wound my way down to Five Points.

 

The area was a sprawling pool of various ethnicities set one alongside the other. So different from the time I had ventured into the Bowery in search of Father's tenement home. There, everything had mingled together. Here, there were places influenced by solely Italians, the Chinese … I wandered deeper into the blocks looking for my first target. They were all in Hell's Kitchen. I'd only been here once with some friends from Harkness Academy.

 

I rode up to the Last Dregs and tied up Drifter. Last Dregs looked about as respectable as a two-bit politician. I had to push my way up to the counter where the bartender looked right past me. I came up on the balls of my feet. The crowd bustled and threw back pints of ale. These were not the men I had been accustomed too. Every manner went out the window. A wad of spit shot past my face missing my nose be a mere fraction.

 

I held up a finger hoping to catch the bartender as he passed. But he filled a few pints and rushed to the other end of the bar, grinning all the way through the smokey haze.

 

This was getting me nowhere. I heaved a sigh, perhaps the next one I could at least ask someone.

 

Fighting my way back to the door I froze. a group of men to my right slapped one another on the back. “Yeah, that's our man, that's our Black Dog!”

 

I turned to see a big burly man with a bowler hat cocked on his head. A pistol peaked from beneath his tweed vest. He gave a crooked grin and clapped a wiry man on the shoulder.

 

My blood boiled. I stormed across the room, shoving everyone out my way. I tore the wiry man from beside my target and jabbed a finger right into the Black Dog's chest. “I-want-answers!”

 

He looked down at me and exhaled a puff of putrid smoke from his cigar. It left me coughing.“Heh, lookit what we got here, fellas. A prissy little flea come to bite the Dog.” He grinned, exposing crooked teeth.

 

After I caught my breath I shook a fist in his face. “I mean it! I'll make you answer for what you did to my father!”

 

“Oh?” He tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. It landed on my shoe. “What's a little stripling like you going to do to me? Huh?”

 

I snarled. “I will make you pay!”

 

“That's the thing, right fellas? Black Dog don't pay. Black Dog _gets_ paid. That's how it works. Now, unless you have real business with me boy, shift off.”

 

“You made a mistake when you—” I stopped as he flicked his finger across my nose smartly. I withdrew, rubbing it.

 

“I don't make mistakes. That's why I'm still here, you little shit. Now get off my hide before I break my rule and work for free.”

 

There he was. The disgusting excuse for life that had taken my father. This foul-mouthed oaf had pulled the trigger. I glared at him, gathering the courage as my fist tightened. Laughter filled my ears. They had laughed while he had lain there in the dirt, scraping for the mask. I would drive my fist into his gut so hard he would wish it was a bullet!

 

I doubled over as Black Dog's punch landed square in the center of my belly. The air left my lungs as I stumbled backward, staring at the filthy wood floor. Oh God, I was about to see what I had eaten for lunch again. At least, so I thought.

 

The last thing I saw was his meaty fist on an upper cut toward my left eye.

 

My consciousness crept back to me with all the subtly of a horse kick to the head. The left side of my face was cold and hot the same time. When I inhaled, my stomach sent waves of dull pain lancing up to my chest. I tried to curl up and failed. Groaning instead.

 

A chuckle answered me.

 

I forced my eye open, only the right one could, to find myself in a dimly lit room. A lantern hung above my head. Wood planks under me. I think I was on a table, but I wasn't sure. A red-haired man in a tweed cap grinned at me crookedly.

 

“Well, now. Ain't you nothin' like your da.”

 

“Wha... ooooowwww.” The moment I tried to speak my gut felt like a horse sat on it.

 

The man laughed. “ _Shite_ laddie, you know it t ook a bloke filing a chain link and a full stone block to knock your da on his _arse_. Not a simple clip to the face.”

 

I reached up to find a towel full of ice over my eye. I moaned before I could manage to collect my words. “You know my father?”

 

“Hehe. Damn right, unless there's anuther boy who looks like the Charles Daae I been tailing for years, course I knew him. Your da was my boss.”

 

I blinked up at Irishman. A name came back to me out of the journals. “Byrne? Cormac Byrne?”

 

“That's me name, Laddie.” He tugged on his cap with a wink. “Now, your heavin' like a bellow. Relax and it'll get better.”

 

“It hurts.”

 

“Course it hurts. Ain't no one told yah how to take a hit?” He sucked on a tooth. “Nah, s'right, you always were a soft one.” He lifted my shirt and I glanced down at the dark purple circle spreading there. “Decked you out flatter 'n a pence on the rail. Never seen someone fall like that. Course, most have the smarts 'nough not to poke at the Black Dog.”

 

I lay on the table trying not to tense the bruised muscles.

 

“You'll have a shiner. Like to swell shut in a few hours.”

 

Oh … how was I going to explain that? “Where are … where are we?”

 

He winked again. “Just a little place your father used when things had be kept secret. A hidden back room for rent in the Hell's Kitchen district. Used to met here when it was important. Me and the others. Figured I'd drag your hide here and give you a chance to come to sorts.” He leaned forward. “Course I should give you a blow, you great jackanape! Black Dog nearly saw me collectin' you. Coulda blown everything.”

 

“Everything?” I tried to sit up and regretted it.

 

He eased me back down with a rough hand. “None o' that now. You just bobbed on up to the surface. You want to kiss the floor again? She's no sweeter a mistress the second time.”

 

“What did you mean, everything?” I pressed the ice back against my eye, willing it to numb the pain.

 

He whistled and chuckled. “Erik really did keep you in the dark. Can't say I blame him for that. Black Dog, I've been sitting in the pubs tailing that _gobshite_ in wait for him to fuckup and brag about who hired him to kill our boss since word reached us it happened.”

 

“Us?” I blinked.

 

He cracked his knuckles. “You think you're the only one what wants revenge? No, boy. When that maggot shot Erik in the back, he had no clue what a wave of trouble he set in motion. But he ain't the one who did it, just the bloke who pulled the trigger. No, the Black Dog don't shoot any ball that ain't been paid for. Someone else wanted your da dead and none of us are going to stop until we dig up who.”

 

I lay back sucking shallow breaths to keep my gut from clenching. But his words were a relief. Father's network of whisperers. Why hadn't I thought about that? I had seen it in his writing, but never thought about finding them. “Bryne. The men who stole me and mom, those Persians several years ago. Do you think it could be them?”

 

“The ones who slaughtered  Antonino?” He made a rude noise. “Hell no. All their bodies were found rotting in the makeshift graves your da arranged for 'em. Besides, that ain't that lots way. No. This is someone else. Trouble is that doin' what you did ain't worth a drop o' whiskey in the Hudson. Men like Black Dog won't just talk. Gotta want to, or we gotta make 'im.”

 

“What can we do?”

 

He pulled the ice from my eye and winced. “Well, you can lie here for a bit longer looking like your horse gave you a good whack. When you can ride, I'll get you home. Then, you just sit tight and leave this to those who can dodge a punch.”

 

I snatched the ice from him and gingerly put it back on my eye. “My wife is gonna kill me.”

 

Byrne snorted with laughter. “That's your problem.”

 

* * * * *

_**~Christine~** _

 

Sunlight sparkled on the river in a mesmerizing pattern. I lay nestled against Erik's chest where he reclined in the grass beneath the crowned oak. Rose bushes in full bloom turned their colorful faces to him. The world was a majestic symphony as he coaxed melodies and harmonies from the air around us. Languidly, I stroked the flight feathers of his wing simply drifting on the largo tempo of his music.

 

“Erik … ” I murmured.

 

I felt him look down, his breath shifting my hair.

 

“I want you do something for me.” My fingers traced the longest of the feathers. “Fly me away … to heaven with you.”

 

The glade fell into a somber silence. Tension invaded his limbs.

 

Slowly, I turned to gaze up at him. His eyes were plagued with distress. “Christine … my love, I cannot.”

 

I took his hand and pulled myself up, kneeling before him. “I want to stay with you. Forever. Please. I don't want to be parted from you.”

 

He ran his finger along my chin. “My dear, l will not permit it. You do not understand.”

 

“I love you.”

 

His eyes closed tightly. He embraced me and I felt a tremble in his arms. “I would do anything to keep us together. But … not that.”

 

“Why?” I would have pounded his breast, but he held me too tight. “It's what I want. To be with you … always. You promised. Always!”

 

He sighed and loosened his embrace, cradling me as I looked up at him. “Heaven is not ready for you yet, my love.”

 

“But I want to be with you.”

 

“What we want is not always the right thing. Please, you must wait.”

 

I clung to him like a stubborn child. “I don't want to wait! I know this is what I want. What I need. I need to be with you.”

 

“In time.”

 

“Now!”

 

He sighed once more.

 

“Take me with you.”

 

“When you are finished.” He caressed my hair.

 

I wanted to dig my nails into his skin. How could he wish to keep us apart? “Finished with what?”

 

“Living … ”

 

A shout shattered the glade. I opened my eyes to the darkened bedroom, a vase of close to two dozen ribboned roses on the nightstand, some stripped of their petals others, with papery crisps clinging to the stems. The night wind tossed the curtains into the room. I drew my knees up to my chest, dwarfed by the bed meant for two.

 

“Charles!” The cry pierced the night, muffled through my closed door. I leapt out of bed and charged across the room. The moment I opened the door, a pattering of barefoot steps on the stairs greeted me. “Charles, what happened?”

 

Hastily, I dashed down the hall, my gown tangling at my feet. Charles! Simonetta's voice had been hysterical. What was wrong? I turned the corner and raced halfway down the staircase, nearly colliding with him where he clung to the railing. Simonetta clutched his shoulder.

 

With his head hung, he gasped in a breath and coughed. “Fine … I'm alright … ” His voice was tense, forced.

 

“You don't sound alright.” I reached out for him.

 

He raised his head and my breath locked in my chest. His left eye was swollen shut in the middle of bruises so purple it would challenge a plum. “Mother, don't worry I just … ”

 

I wrenched his hand from the railing and supported his shoulder. “Simonetta, let's get him upstairs.” She seized his other shoulder.

 

“I'm fine … damn it … ” he protested, running out of breath. With every step he stiffened as we dragged him up the staircase.

 

We shuffled into the study and I laid him out on the couch and coaxed the embers of the fire back enough to offer some light.

 

“Charles, your eye. It looks terrible. What happened?” Simonetta stroked his hair.

 

“Drifter threw me,” he mumbled. “It's just a bruise, nothing more. I told you, I'll be fine.”

 

In the fire light, I came back to the side of the couch. His breathing was tight, ending in a pained hesitation. I narrowed my eyes at the bruise on his face, the shape of it. I placed a hand on Simonetta's shoulder. “Go, wake Marie. Help her fetch some Solomon's seal from the green house for a poultice. Bring a lot of it.”

 

As she dashed off, Charles moaned on the couch. “All this for nothing. It's not that bad.”

 

I placed my hands on my hips. “What the devil have you been up to?”

 

Through the one eye he could open, he stared up at me blankly. Or at least he tried. I glimpsed the guilt lingering. “I told you—”

 

His vest was already unbuttoned. I snatched the fabric of his shirt, even as he fought me, and pulled it open. Buttons freed from their threads clattered on the floor. A massive purple bruise spread across his belly. “How dare you lie to her!”

 

“My horse—”

 

“Your horse doesn't have fingers! You think I don't know what knuckle marks look like? Tell me the truth, now!”

 

He swallowed. Shadows bagged his right eye. No … it was puffy, but not from the swelling. That had not yet reached that far. He lowered his eye and stared at the bruise on his belly. “I found the man who shot Father. I found the Black Dog.”

 

“Are you mad?” I had to catch my breath. “Charles, what were you thinking!”

 

He closed his eye and shook his head slowly, wincing at the movement. “I had to … I just had to, Mother. Some chance to … some way to make him pay … but it isn't just him. This is bigger. Byrne told me.”

 

“Byrne?” I grabbed his hand. “Cormac Byrne?”

 

He looked at me curiously. “Yes … you know about him?”

 

I almost grabbed the collar of his jacket. Staring into his blackened eye reminded me not to. “Of course I know about him. God, but you shouldn't. No, Charles. You must stop this immediately.” Erik's circle of informants had always kept a weathered eye out for trouble. His death certainly would have goaded their ire. However loyal they were, those men were dangerous. It troubled me that Charles could have stumbled across their existence. “How did you learn his name?”

 

His eye glanced at the desk.

 

I turned and my heart rammed against the wall of my chest. No, those couldn't be! “Charles, are those … ”

 

“Yes. I've been reading Father's journals.”

 

“No. Put them back! Put them back in the laboratory right this instant.”

 

He tried to sit up and only managed to hiss as he flopped back against the cushions. “You knew about them?”

 

I knelt at his side and grasped his arms, forcing him to look me in the eyes. “Your father forbade me to ever read them! Charles, you must do as I say. Those words were never meant to be seen by anyone but him.”

 

He creased his brow and snapped, “You don't understand. There is a chance of finding a clue … the marble chip. The one left at the knoll. Someone hired the Black Dog to murder Father! The answer is in those pages.”

 

“I don't care what's in there! He warned me  _ never _ to read them, Charles! Put them back. Leave this alone and let his men deal with this.”

 

His hands curled into fists. A possession burned in his puffy eye, a determination I had often witnessed in Erik's. “I can't. I must make the man responsible pay.”

 

I wrapped my arms around him and held him so tight he released a cry. His belly. I tried to convince my arms to loosen but they refused. Not two, I couldn't lose them both. In his eyes I saw that unquenchable fire he had inherited. There was no more point in trying to stop him than there had been in trying stop his father. “Promise me. Promise me you will be careful.”

 

Charles's answer was lost to a whimper. I laid him back down on the couch. He lay gasping, holding his belly.

 

“Erik, my angel. Watch over your son.”

 

 


	11. Chapter Eleven

_ **Chapter 11** _

_ **** _

_**~Christine~** _

 

“Erik!” The hollow glade greeted me in silence. The rose buds shut tight in the overcast afternoon. I approached the crowned oak screaming his name. Why wasn't he here? He was always here. Always here waiting. A knobby root tripped me and I stumbled to the ground.

 

His arms caught me, lifted me up to stand before him. “Hush now. Why are you trembling so?”

 

Burying my face in his vest I cried out, “Take me from this! Take me away from the fear and the despair. I just want to be with you. That's all I want.”

 

He brushed my hair with his fingers. “Christine, I have told you that cannot be so. Not now.”

 

“I don't care what you told me. I can't do this without you. I'm not strong enough.”

 

His wings wrapped around us. “You are never alone. I promised you I would always be here when you have need of me. That will always be true.”

 

I clung to his shoulders. “I need you. Now! Always!”

 

“Shh. Stop shaking. You do not know what you ask. Please, trust me. Lingering here … too long … My love, you must go back.”

 

“I don't want to. You can't make me.”

 

His wings unfolded. Gently he pushed me away and turned to face the river. “You are right. I cannot. And yet the world goes on without you. The harsh wheel of time grinds away. Nearly a month has passed. What have you missed as you lie here intoxicated in the music?”

 

“Charles … ” I bowed my head. “You must stop him. Go to him. Convince him to … ”

 

Erik held up a hand. “Our son follows the path he has chosen. He has been a man now for sometime.”

 

“He is our son,” I cried.

 

“He is doing what he feels is right,” he replied firmly. “You must be there for him. Something you can not do here in my arms.”

 

Heat rose on my cheeks.

 

Erik stared into the passing river. A wilted rose bloom floated on the current carried along the bank. Somberly, he continued, “Some paths cannot be interrupted. No matter how much we try. Another slips away in silence. One you have forgotten … but I never can.”

 

The words eddied in my thoughts. The scent of whiskey lingered in the air. Nadir … when I had last seen him? Nadir!

 

Blindly, I dashed back to the mansion to the closed door. His room was dark with the drapes drawn shut. An untouched tray of food remained on the nightstand. He lay beneath the covers. The tarnished silver chain of a necklace dangled from his folded fingers. He breathed, but even in the darkness I noted the wasting. His flesh sank into the bones of his face, his expression lax. Just a glint of light shone between his loosely closed lids.

 

“Nadir?” I touched his hand.

 

He didn't respond.

 

I brushed his cheek. “Nadir … ”

 

Stiffly, his head turned from me. The eyes blinked shut. The glint vanished.

 

I sunk into the wicker chair at his bedside and watched the beaded silk blanket rise and fall, counting the time between his breaths.

 

* * * * *

_**~Nadir~** _

 

The flutter of cards shuffling filled the room. I tried to ignore it. But the sound drove in like spikes in the silence. My fingers clasped tighter to the pendant.

 

“This is getting old, Daroga.” His cold voice struck me. I had no choice but to look over at the bedside wicker chair. He sat there with one ankle resting on his knee. By Allah, why did he torment me so? A few years were all that ever separated us in age. But the man who sat next me now was the youth who's very presence practically ruled the courts of Persia from behind his captivating mask. “Everyone knows that sulking in the darkness was always my refuge. Not yours. Now cease this pitiful self-loathing and get up.”

 

I heaved a sigh and looked back at the ceiling. Eventually he would tire of pestering me and find something else to do. All I could do was remain the steadfast wet blanket.

 

“Do you have any idea how wretched you look? A serpent in mid-shed has a better complexion. Have some decency and take a bath.” Another run of the cards through his fingers. “Are you trying to become part of the furniture? Must I drag you from that bed myself?”

 

“Go away, Erik. Leave me in peace.” I croaked into the darkened room.

 

He made a rude noise and tugged on the chain in my hands. “How interesting. You always prattle on about the depravity of theft and yet you possess something I had not given you. When did you steal this?”

 

I worked the links back into my hands. “While I kept vigil.”

 

“Oh? Now that is fascinating. What happened to your morals, your precious code?”

 

I clamped my eyes against the bitter sting of those words, each one a barb hitting its mark. “I … failed.”

 

“Hardly the first time,” he huffed. “Would you like me to list all the times in painstaking detail that you fell abysmally short of success?”

 

Leaning up on one elbow, I glared at him. “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

He bridged the cards in mid-shuffle and let them fall neatly between his hands. “To illustrate what a petulant fool you are being. For all your past shortcomings you never rendered yourself into a useless lump of a man. I knew you to be stubborn, but this exceeds even my own legendary lengths.”

 

“It's because of me you are dead!”

 

Erik burst into laughter. “You give yourself entirely too much credit. Did you produce the pistol?” He flicked a card face down on the bed.

 

“No.”

 

“Did you pull the trigger?” He added another.

 

I stared at the tarot arrangement building on the beaded silk. “No … I didn't.”

 

“Then you are taking credit for someone else's action.” His eyes pierced me through the mask. “Misplacing blame. A terrible habit of yours the entirety of the time I have known you. How often did you accuse me falsely of a crime?”

 

“Given how often you were behind something, can I be blamed?”

 

He held up a card. “That is debatable. But it is not me we are here to discuss. It is your fate.”

 

Tarot had fascinated me. And yet, I never had grasped how to read it. Discs, wands, cups, and swords … they were a foreign language built in symbols.

 

One by one, Erik flipped over the fifteen cards muttering aloud. “If you refuse to listen to me, perhaps the universe might be powerful enough to convince you of your folly.”

 

His flipped over the Prince of Wands in the center. In one smooth motion, I watched as his hand brushed over it and changed to the Prince of Cups. His lip lifted in a snarl. “Apparently the universe is in a humorous mood this day.”

 

I blinked trying to remember what this meant.

 

“The cards render me in ill-light. Apparently, my dear Daroga, I _have_ influenced you.” He flipped the one to the immediate left and right. The Hermit and the Ten of Wands. He smirked. “Indeed. You have isolated yourself trying to tease out some pathetic meaning. What does your precious Allah have to say about all this? Hmm?”

 

I kept my eyes locked safely on the cards, away from his scorn.

 

“Let's see where this is going … ” He flicked the top six cards in rapid succession. The Chariot, Five of Cups, Eight of Wands in one group. Seven of Swords, Ten of Swords, Five of Wands. “Pathetic. You are not even trying. Look at this.” He pointed to the group on the left. “Just because some force stands in your way everything gets carried away into … ” he slid his finger to the group on the right, “throwing it right into the four winds and letting it land where it may! What are you doing, Nadir? Where are your calculations?”

 

“I am tired.” I rested my head on my arm. “I don't want to hear any more of this, Erik. Please, leave me alone.”

 

Undeterred, he flipped over the lower group of the three on the left. “Now, where is the self loathing … ah. Four of Wands beside the Eight of Cups. Get over yourself.” He flicked over the Devil and drew back his hand sharply. Only his breathing filled the silence as he darted his eyes between the Prince of Cups and the Devil. “ _Merde_.” It was only a whisper, but I heard it loud and clear.

 

He picked up the Devil and held it up before me. “No! You still think for yourself! I have not replaced your sense of reason. Your decisions are your own. Do you hear me, you fool?”

 

I stared as his hand trembled, holding the card before me. The Devil, many had called him that, or at least an apprentice. I knew the meaning of this card on another level. Yes, Erik was an unscrupulous man. Who else would it be?

 

He slapped the card back in place and tore the remaining three over. “Some force in this accursed universe must be able to convince you … ” With each card, his release lost its intensity. He drew back staring wordlessly at the full spread. The last three: the Aeon, Three of Swords, and the Moon.

 

His hand brushed the image of the moon on the card. “You … you … truly have … given up.”

 

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “What is there to live for?”

 

“Just because … ”

 

“Erik. I followed you here and watched over you all these years. For a long time, my life has revolved around making certain you kept your oath. That effort has taken its toll. I am old. I am weary of the pain in my body.” I swallowed hard. The next words choked me. “There is nothing left for me on this earth.”

 

Erik picked up the Hermit card, bowed his head and whispered, “then … it is I who failed you … my friend.”

 

The silence stretched on. At long last, he rose to his feet. “I was once the Angel of Doom delivering death to those who begged me. I hear that plea in you now.” He held out his hand to me. “Come. I cannot change the past. But I can do this much.”

 


	12. Chapter Twelve

_ **Chapter 12** _

_ **** _

_**~Damrosch~** _

The hands on my pocket watch ticked away. I stared at it idly, my mind lingering on how often this timepiece ended up in various locations, spirited away by Erik's hands. I sighed and glanced up at the oak door of _Clef de Voute Manoir_ wondering when it would open to admit me. The butler had taken my calling card several minutes before. The patter of rain filled the air beyond the portico. A dreary day indeed, fitting this morning's ill news.

At last the door opened. The butler gestured me in. “Monsieur Daae will receive you in the parlor.” 

Even though I knew the way I followed behind him down the short hall. The parlor's hearth had a cheery fire going, one that felt quite inappropriate given the circumstances. Charles stood head bowed with his back to me, his hand gripping a glass of dark amber liquor. 

I cleared my throat from the door. “I've come to pay my condolences.”

Stiffly he turned and replied with a hollow voice, “Thank you.”

“Have all the arrang—Christ! What happened to your eye?” I blurted out the moment he lifted his head. His left eye was swollen shut and stained a blackish-purple.

He shrugged and mumbled, “I was in the wrong place. Doesn't matter.”

I dropped my hat into the chair and came closer. Someone had hit him, hard. “Doesn't matter? Can you still see out of that eye.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Don't know yet. The poultices are helping. But until I can open it again I won't know.” He stared distantly into the liquid in the glass. “I'm sorry … I had to drink something before you came in.”

“Don't apologize, Charles. I think anyone would understand.”

“Would they?” His hand became a fist. 

Was he shaking? The man looked like someone had torn the spirit right out of him. 

“It's a crying shame.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “Sixteen years with that man under the same roof. Sixteen, and no one has the first clue how to bury a Persian. Mother has gone to try to find out. She … she had the grace to be in the room when he passed in the middle of the night.”

“I'm sure things will—”

He slammed his hand down on the table. “He was slipping away all this time and I never noticed! Can I do nothing right? Damn it!”

I jumped back at the outburst. “Charles, surely this isn't your fault.”

When he looked up, his eye was wild. “You don't understand. I've been upstairs reading Father's journals trying to find clue … ”

“Still? I thought you were going to … ”

“And all this time Nadir was lying there, listless. The servants mentioned it. Talked about forcing him to eat. Spoke about how he mumbled out in Persian. But none of us took notice. None of us came to him. We were all too wrapped up in our own worlds.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have all been dealing with the trauma. You can hardly blame yourself. Nadir took Erik's death very hard. I swear I never saw him outside of this place without Erik. The old man likely went into shock over it and nothing anyone could have done would have brought him out of it.”

Charles shook his head. “But we didn't even try.  _Merde_ , Damrosch! I should have at least taken note that the man was dying.” He flopped down in a chair and winced. “I never should have come to live here. Ever since selling the house … this place, the very stones are haunted.”

“How much have you been drinking?”

He drained the glass and pushed it onto the small table between the chairs. “Not as much as one would expect. It's not that. Damrosch, I hear him everywhere. The echoes ring through the corridors like a never ending requiem.”

Voices? Could it be something in the blood line? Erik had complained of a voice driving him to the brink. 

The delicate notes of a piano drifted in the air.

Charles curled into the chair, his one eye closing tight. “Haunting. It's everywhere, driving me mad.”

I stood up and walked around the room. “Well, if you are crazy, then that makes two of us. I hear it too.”

He leaned forward in the chair, staring at me. “You see! He haunts this place. You believe me now!”

The sound shifted depending on where I stood. “Oh, I hear it. But I don't believe it.” I exited the parlor with Charles on my heels. The melody grew stronger as we approached the music room. I swung the door open and the music dashed into silence. Simonetta's hands shifted back from the keys and rested on the swelling of her belly. No wonder I had seen so little of her. I moved aside to let Charles see his 'ghost'. 

“A perfectly rational explanation. It was simply your wife playing.”

She blushed. “I'm sorry. I just … felt … I haven't played for sometime and felt it was only right not to neglect the studies your father had spent teaching me. Should I have been in the study?”

When Charles hung on the door frame in a wordless stupor I shook my head. “No, it's quite alright. I just came to pay my respects and inquire if there was anything I could do to help.”

Her worried gaze flickered to Charles, but she forced a smile. “You are too kind to us.”

I offered her a bow with a hidden glance to Charles for her eyes alone. “Please resume your playing. We won't disturb you further.”

Taking him by the shoulder, I led him back to the parlor and topped off his glass from the decanter. I wrapped his fingers around it and seated him in the chair before filling a glass for myself and taking my place. 

For a long time we sat in silence, drinking as the music drifted on a lulling tide.

Charles slowly bowed his head. “I'm not crazy.”

“I never said you actually were.”

He ran a finger along the collar of his shirt, the cravat already a mess. “I just … I just don't know what to do.”

I took a deep swallow of the whiskey, letting it burn all the way down. “The truth, is no one knows. Some just pretend to. That's for one death. You've had two in close to a month. It would take a heartless cad not be affected by that.”

“I hated him.” Charles swirled his glass. “I hated him all this time for having failed to protect Father. But I never expected this. I didn't want him to die. Alone. I swear I never wished it.”

Regret, such a deep insidious thorn. “Nadir Khan was hardly a young man. And time weighed on him. His leg never did fully heal. Think of it, years of hobbling around with an aching leg. Perhaps it has more to do with that than anything else. The truth is, we'll never know. All we can do is honor his life.”

He sighed and stared into the crackling fire. A rumble of thunder shook the windowpane. “Father killed his son.”

I sat up. “What?”

He nodded. “In the journals, Father wrote about it. In Persia, Nadir's boy was very ill. He would never get better. He'd just fade away into an ugly death. Father knew and told Nadir the day would come. When it happened, when the boy nearly choked because he could no longer swallow, Father had a way to make it gentle. To take him softly. Nadir couldn't do it. He wanted nature to take the course but Father … Father told him how cruel nature could be. How undignified a fate waited.” He stared once more into the whiskey. “Father took the boy in another room, cradled him in his arms and gave him a swift poison that dragged him into eternal sleep. The boy died listening to Father singing a lullaby.”

I waited as he paused, sucking in breaths in the long silence.

“In the room, upstairs in the bedchamber. You heard Father. How he begged Nadir for peace. He could have done it. He could have given him enough to slip into a coma. Given him at least that much. But … he didn't. He left him writhing in agony. Nadir withheld the mercy he could have given.”

It was my turn to take a deep breath. “Charles, your father was delirious when he asked.”

He gripped the arm of his chair. “He could have done it. Could have given him dignity. But he refused.”

I took a deep gulp of the alcohol to gather myself before I could reply. “Anyone of us could have granted him that wish, Charles. But the truth is, no one had the resolve to. In truth I can't imagine doing what your father had done. Even had I the means in my hands. That takes … extraordinary strength.”

“We should have … ”

“But we didn't. And there is no going back.” I sighed. “We all make choices. We have to live with the consequences regardless.” It had been years since I had officially been his mentor, but I was here more as a friend than in any professional capacity. 

He emptied his glass and stared morosely into it.

I crossed the room and brought the decanter back with me, refilling his glass and my own. I set it back on the table between us. We would be a while, and he needed this more than anything in the world. Just someone to share the silence.

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

Only a handful of people mingled in the room. They formed small clusters of idle conversation. It had been at least a half hour since anyone had approached Nadir's body. Such a stark difference from Father's where the line seemed infinite. I drifted to the open coffin and wished dearly that Mother had not excused herself for a few minutes. I would have given anything to leave the room … but someone had to remain.

My eye ached terribly in the stuffy room. Over the pain in my stomach, I felt nauseous. Perhaps an effect of still being unable to open my black eye. People glanced at me with unasked questions. I could hardly blame them. It looked like a jar of blackberry preserves had broken on my face.

In the coffin, the old Persian's emaciated body had been dressed in an ornate silken robe. His limbs drowned in the excess fabric. I had seen him in similar attire only once before. Father and Mother had assisted a dance company with a special performance evoking the exotic cultures of Eurasia. Somehow, Father had convinced Nadir to wear his court robes on the stage. I recalled Father dressed in the most garish robes I had ever seen on that stage. For weeks, Nadir had grumbled at him about raiding his personal wardrobe. 

Dimly I became aware that I was no longer alone. I glanced up at a finely dressed woman, the lines on her face telling she was older than my mother by some years. She quietly took in the sight before her, her somber expression gradually replaced by a wistful smile.

“He's finally been reunited,” she whispered.

I nodded stiffly.

“The poor soul. Holding out for all these decades just to see her again.”

Her? I slowly turned to look at up at the lady. “Excuse me?”

For one moment she glanced at my eye and squinted, before respectfully looking down at her folded hands. “Monsieur Daae. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

I swallowed. She was blushing. “Do I … do I know you?”

Her gloved hands toyed with the lace trim on her gown. Beneath the wrinkles time had bestowed on her remained the vestiges of elegant beauty. “Lady Dougal. I spoke with you a month ago, at your father's wake. I daresay I am not surprised you may not remember. Your mind seemed elsewhere.”

Dougal? Where had I heard that name … besides there? Frantically I searched for it. She quietly waited for some time.

“Monsiuer, there is no disrespect in not knowing me. I am an old acquaintance of both of them, from another time.” She turned her gaze back to Nadir and the blush intensified. Her fingers shifted with a longing to touch him.

The scrawling loops of my father's writing bridged a gap. I inhaled sharply. “Chastity?”

She tucked her chin, the nod was barely visible. 

I had to catch my balance on the coffin. In their Bowery tenement the downstairs neighbor had been a harlot. Father had mentioned that in the course of time Nadir had failed to hide his affections for her.

She smiled. “In all these years I have never forgotten him. The way he stumbled through English. The tenderness of his heart. His rare loyalty.”

“Loyalty?”

“We lived in the same building.” A quiet laugh escaped her. “I never would have guessed it at first. The way the two of them shouted at each other when their voices reached through the thin floor in that foreign tongue I could have sworn they would come to lethal blows. Then slowly, as the words changed to English, I began to understand their relationship. I had been quick to judge your father. In truth, we had been cruel to one another in passing. When your father became seriously ill, I witnessed the depth of Nadir's dedication. The poor man limped to the work lines on a harsh winter day. When he passed my door, I witnessed a man haunted by his impossible decision. He muttered about needing the money so they could keep the roof over their heads … but his friend might be dead by the time he returned. I picked the lock on the door and spent the afternoon tending your feverish father.”

I touched her hand to pause her. “You saw him? Unmasked?”

She nodded. “Monsieur Erik looked as if on his deathbed. And when Nadir returned, I daresay he looked as if to join him. It took days for your father's fever to break. Days of Nadir grappling with himself over leaving him. One night, when worry's strain had nearly broken him, I offered him refuge in my arms. Refuge he struggled to take. There in his eyes I saw him pining for a love who only existed in his memories. His beloved wife.”

I couldn't speak. Father had mentioned an infatuation. But not this. Had he known?

Once more the blush intensified. “For a brief time he clung to me. I embraced his tender heart, so rare in the hardened streets we'd been cast to. I would have remained with him. But … he had made his promises.”

“Promises?” I wanted her keep talking.

“His vows to her. When she died birthing their son, his heart shattered and he never felt he could take another as wife.” She shifted her gaze to me and placed a hand on mine. “It wasn't his only promise. He had a made a solemn pact with your father. One that spanned well over five decades.”

That staggered me. “Five … ”

“He spoke resolutely of his duty to Erik. So it hardly surprised me when they left the tenement together.” She looked over her shoulder, a gentleman waved a hand at her. “I must beg your pardon, it's time for us to go.” She reached into the coffin and caressed Nadir's folded hands. “Rest in peace, reunited with your true love. Know that I will always treasure my time with you.”

I stood watching her cross the room with all the elegance of an aristocrat. Loyalty. The man had journeyed across an ocean to keep a promise … I had underestimated the cost.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_ **Chapter 13** _

__ **** _ _

__ **~Christine~** _ _

 

Mindlessly, I worked the lace hook through the motions. The delicate pattern emerged from between my fingers. It helped. The distraction kept me anchored here in this room. It kept me from asking why the roses has stopped appearing on my nightstand. The sun's rays cast a cheery light into the room … the ripples on the river …

 

No. I needed to be here. He promised he would wait there, always. I could go there later. For now, my hands needed to make lace. Lots and lots of lace. In the chair beside me, Simonetta's fingers ran through the motions with as much distraction as mine. She was showing now. The bodice she wore had to be looser to allow a bit more room.

 

“How was your visit to your parents?” I broke the long silence.

 

She flashed a weary smile. “Tiring, but pleasant. Father had company. There's so much more bustle over there. I find now I prefer the quiet.”

 

“To be expected.” I resumed the idle patterns making a fine scallop. “I did too.”

 

“As uncomfortable as I was, I suspect Charles had it worse.”

 

“Oh?”

 

She set the lace down and nodded, blush flashing to her cheeks. “The men kept stealing rude glances at his eye. Even though the swelling has gone down over the last days, and he can open it, that bruise still attracts so much attention. I wanted to run into the parlor and comfort him.”

 

I completed the scallop and set my lace aside. “I fear that would have made things worse for him. Men and their silly pride. More often than not it makes things dreadfully worse. At least now, I understand why he begged for another poultice within an hour of arriving home. That mystery has been solved.”

 

She laughed quietly. “Yes. The whole way home he kept rubbing it miserably. I didn't know what to say.”

 

“Soon enough the bruise will fade and they will hopefully forget about this. Some other topic will take their interest.”

 

Her hand suddenly embraced her belly.

 

I leaned forward. “What is it?”

 

“Movement. I … there again. Like kicking.”

 

“May I?”

 

She took my hand and laid it across the swelling.

 

A pulse of motion beat against my hand briefly. “My, aren't we a lively one.”

 

She smiled … but it faded. Her hand drifted down the side of her belly. I felt her shiver.

 

“Simonetta, are you alright?” I put my hand on her forehead. No fever. No chill.

 

Again she shivered, her face tightened with worry. “What if … what if something happens?”

 

All the thoughts I had suffered during Charles's pregnancy rained on me. I had known he was Erik's. Would he bear the deformity? Would he survive to birth? I saw evidence of that same inner turmoil on her face.

 

“What if this baby dies? What if I can never give Charles an heir?” Her breath began to quicken. “What if I fail in my womanly duties?”

 

“Shhh.” I stroked her hand. “What has brought all this on?”

 

“The men, in the parlor. I overheard them talking.” Terror pulled at her features. “For years his wife tried to give him a son. The babies all died. Some in her womb, others shortly after. Only one was a son, and he was too frail to even draw a first breath. He left her and took another. What if … ”

 

“Oh good heavens.” The words of callous men. I placed her hand where we had felt movement. Fortunately, my grandchild was still fussing. “All this over nothing. Charles was raised better than that. He'd never abandon you over something as ridiculous as that.”

 

“But … what if he did?”

 

“For one thing, if he did I'd cuff his ear so hard he would wish he had never been born.” I shook a finger at her. “His father would have done the same.”

 

“How do you know he wouldn't abandon me?”

 

My eyes drifted to the ring on my finger. “Because he is his father's son … and I know how Erik took the news.”

 

She took a shuddered breath. “Mother Daae … Charles had a brother?”

 

I bowed my head. “I never knew. Only that I was with child. Within a year after our marriage I realized it. I recognized the morning sickness, the subtle changes. Erik had never seen them. He didn't notice.”

 

“I find that difficult to believe. He was so perceptive.”

 

“Ah, but he could become so preoccupied. And I did everything I could to conceal it from him. Only because I wanted to make sure it came full term. In the night, Erik had spoken of his regrets for having missed the first eight years of Charles's life. He longed for a chance to truly raise a child, to hold an infant in his arms. Another creation for his hands to guide.”

 

My voice faltered. She embraced my hand.

 

“I was hardly showing the morning the bleeding began. Erik was away for a few days, fortunately. It gave me time to weep into the pillow for my failure to him. All I thought about was how much it would crush him to learn of this. That he might blame me, or blame himself for the loss. I couldn't bear to break his heart.” I took a deep breath and composed myself. “So for years, I bore the secret. No one knew. I haven't even told Charles. In my shame I wrote it in my diary and locked it in the room on the third floor. I never imagined Erik would stumble on it. When he came to me with the diary in hand he was furious.”

 

“Ohh, Mother Daae.”

 

I shook my head and smiled. “Furious that I had not told him. That I had been carrying the guilt all that time alone. Erik held me tight in his arms forgiving me, telling me I had been foolish, wishing he could have been there to comfort me. I had been petrified that the news would have angered him. It had. But for a reason I had been oblivious too. Over the years we kept trying. But that blessing was never to be. Charles remains an only child.”

 

She laid her hand over her belly.

 

I wiped away a tear that threatened to fall. “Some, so called, gentlemen might have been disappointed. But Erik was not one of them. And he didn't raise his son to reflect their asinine ways. You will always have a place in Charles's heart. I can assure you of that. Now. No more fussing about this. We have yards of lace to make.”

 

We both picked up where we had left off. “Thank you. For trusting me with your secret.”

 

“You needed to hear it,” I remarked. Time to change the subject. “Have you picked any names yet?”

 

She blushed. “A list as long as my hair, for both genders. We haven't even begun to whittle it down.”

 

“You have have plenty of time to decide, my dear. At least a few months yet.”

 

“Oh, if I last. This heat is intolerable. My ankles look like a carthorse's.”

 

I chuckled. “I carried Charles over the Parisian summer. I never wished harder for a snowbank to jump into. I had to settle for chipped ice in small quantities. I swear, there simply was not enough ice in all of Europe to comfort me.”

 

That earned me a giggle I was glad to hear.

 

“I had read of this place called Siberia. A vast tract of tundra. I can't tell you how many times I threatened to make my escape to that land simply for relief. But the servants always stopped me. Good thing too. Erik told me later had if I managed to make it there I should have found myself quite alone.”

 

Simonetta finished a row of eyelets and glanced up. “Who would have been your midwife?”

 

“Apparently there are a lot of reindeer there and not much else. Perhaps I could have convinced one of them to help.” I grinned. “Relax. There will be a real midwife for you. And I know a few things that should help along the way. We'll make sure that everything goes well. You will be a wonderful mother. I can see that already.”

 

Her weary gaze met mine. “Thank you.”

 

I helped her to her feet. “You look flush, dear. Perhaps it is time for an afternoon nap. That always helps. When you wake, I'll make us some tea. How does that sound?”

 

She squeezed my hand. “Perfect.”

 

_* * * * *_

_**~Christine~** _

 

The river cradled the rose blossom on its surface. An eddy spun it around in a slow circle before it once more began the journey. “I never got a chance to know you.” My hand strayed to my belly.

 

The woosh of his wings disturbed the surface of the water, light scattering in different directions. His arms closed around me, I sank into that secure embrace. “Some things are never meant to be.”

 

“My Angel, I wanted to give you more.”

 

He kissed the side of my neck. I shuddered at the caress. “You gave me your heart. I could not ask for greater gift.”

 

We watched the current flowing past us for sometime. I bowed my head. “I want to stay … but I … ”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_ **Chapter 14** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

I transposed the last figure into the ledger and pushed the book aside with a long sigh. My head rested on my arm. The first thing I was going to do tomorrow was hire an accountant. Somehow, mid July had snuck up on me without me having taken a glance at all this. Father was retired. How much bookkeeping could there be? 

A lot more than I had been aware of.

Hours ago, Simonetta had kissed me before going to bed. I had not missed the pained expression she cast at the stack of journals still waiting on the edge of the desk. For most of this day, they had sat untouched. My mind was busy juggling calculations. It left me dizzy. 

Why hadn't he hired an accountant? With as many businesses as he had his hands in, it would have made sense. They even had firms for just such a purpose. A few of my classmates at Harkness went into that.

Ah yes, that's right. Father didn't trust anyone. I sighed, my eyesight too blurry to even consider digging back into the journals. Besides, my search had thus far proved fruitless. Other than demolishing the facade Father had shown the world to hide his true self, I found little that would help me in my task to find his murderer.

I walked over to the balcony door and caught my reflection in the glass as I passed. The swelling had abated some time ago. But a sickly yellow-brown stain remained around my left eye. Rather like a painter had unevenly slapped paint with a loose brush. At least it was less obvious now.

I looked forward to the day when society no longer craned their necks to glimpse it. When their whispers contained something else other than outrageous theories as to my shameful shiner.

Leaning on the balustrade that overlooked Central Park, I took in the sultry night air. The grounds were entirely deserted, as was typical past dusk. The stars shimmered down and I found myself counting them. 

Yet another fruitless task. I sighed and lowered my gaze.

A flicker of light caught my attention. Beside a bush, I spied a shadow of a man using a small mirror to catch the moonlight. I squinted and could just make out a tweed cap. Byrne? The ray of light shifted from my eyes to the ground right in front of him.

Hastily I dashed down the stairs and out onto the cobblestones. Cormac Byrne leaned against a tree and tugged on his cap with a grin. “Ev'nin', Monsieur Daae. You'll wanna come with me.”

“Where?”

He flicked a gesture to the waiting carriage peering just around the corner. “Arranged a ride for yah, Laddie. Get in, tis a fair distance.”

I hurried beside him until we climbed into the carriage. “Is there news? Did you find something?”

He took his seat beside me and knocked on the roof. “Lessgo.”

The carriage lurched forward. He folded his arms across his chest, his fingers toying with something in his jacket pocket. “Woulda been here sooner. But I had to stop and pick something up.”

I eyed him, trying to glimpse it. 

He just offered me a toothy grin that reminded me of an alley cat. “You'll see. Hey, that eye of yours looks better.” With that he lapsed into a stubborn silence as we traveled south. The buildings shed their splendor, morphing into structures reminiscent of other cultures. I stared out the window as wiry dragons coiled on the passing signs. 

At last the carriage came to a halt before a brightly painted building. The words  Phoenix Pavilion in gold paint matched the description in my father's journal. This was the opium den. He'd never smoked here, but he had purchased the land it was on to save the business for the den's owner. All in exchange for access to a store of poppy cakes to feed his addiction. 

I stepped out into the street, trying to drink in all the details. I knew it had been burnt down, a victim of those same men who had taken my mother and I. What had it cost to rebuild that arched roof with all the hand carved details? 

Bryne grabbed my arm and pushed open the door. “In you go. Sure tis a pretty place, but the real entertainment is inside.”

“I … I don't smoke opium.”

He laughed as we walked past the beds, each with glassy eyed men passed out on them. Tendrils of strong smoke rose into the air from the enameled pipes. “Neither do I. We ain't here to smoke. Nah, something far more valuable.”

We passed by a gray haired man in embroidered robes. He nodded to Bryne as we passed through a curtain and descended into the basement. A few flickering lamps hardly lit our way. With a purpose he walked through the stacks of crates up to a closed door and knocked twice.

A moment later, the door opened. A grim-faced Oriental studied us before turning to Byrne. “Do you have it?”

He smiled and patted his jacket. “Not sure what it was for. But I get where you're going.”

The Oriental stepped back and waved us in, shutting the door behind us. “You must be Daae.”

I blinked. “Yes … but how … ”

He bowed deeply at the waist. “Shaun Jin, at your service. Always a pleasure to serve most honorable Erik.”

I knew that name. Another of Father's circle.

A mumbling carried in the air. Jin sneered over his shoulder at a table covered with a thick burlap cloth. 

Byrne stalked over and prodded the lump beneath it. It moved. “He talk yet?”

“Yes. But not useful. This creature is foul.”

I hung back narrowing my eyes. He? 

Byrne tugged the cloth off. The Black Dog lay shackled tight to the table, patches of oddly bruised flesh clearly visible. I tensed, eager to spring on him and beat him senseless. But Jin held up a hand to me and shook his head.

It was Byrne who laughed and flicked a finger across the Black Dog's nose. That earned him a sneer. Byrne returned it. “Look who got caught chasin' the dragon and had hisself a rude awakenin'.  _Shite_ , was that a task getting' your bulky hide down here. But well worth it. Go ahead, start howlin' again. No one's gonna hear yah … that cares. And any who do … who believes the word of a hazey-head? Your corpse is never gonna see the sunlight.”

“Piss off!” Black Dog snarled and tugged on the chain. It didn't yield. “I don't have to tell you anything. Not you, and not that floor mop over there!”

I bristled. “How could you shoot my father in the back?”

“Easy, whelp. He turned it to me. I took the shot I was paid to.”

“Who paid you?” Once more, only Jin's open palm held me back. A strange light in his eye stilled me in my path. I still wanted to tear into this maggot, but the dark eyes held me at bay.

“Hah! I don't have to tell you shit. That monstrous freak died wailing like a baby and there's nothing you can do about it.”

I imagined taking a pistol to his throat, pulling the trigger and watching the blood gush out. Or perhaps using Father's Punjab cord stretching it tight over his throat until his bulging eyes popped out of his head. If I only knew where it was!

Jin calmly crossed the room and carried a glass jar filled with yellowish fluid back with him. He handed it to Byrne who held it with a sinister grin. Jin slowly opened the jar. “Are you familiar with the studies of William Beaumont?”

Black Dog shook his head. “Who the hell is that?”

“I should have guessed a man like you would not be. No matter. He was a surgeon. Had a patient. A man who was shot in the stomach with a gun. But the wound healed open and refused to close. The poor patient was miserable. However, Beaumont saw his chance to understand how things worked. You see, no one had actually seen what happened in digestion.” Jin produced a piece of meat on a string. “So, Beaumont lifted the flap that covered the wound and suspended various things on a string and watched what happened. Rather like this.”

He lowered the bright chunk into the yellow fluid. Immediately it began to discolor and fall apart. The acrid scent filled the air, even the Black Dog gagged a bit. Byrne and Jin offered each other a conspiratory wink. Byrne set the jar within Black Dog's sight. 

“So?” He snapped. “What does this tiny jar have to do with anything?”

Jin gave a cold laugh. “We simply wanted you to see. To understand.”

“I don't understand shit.”

“That much is obvious, Black Dog.” Jin tapped the jar, the agitation increased the dissolving of the meat. “Inside is the equivalent of the fluids in a man's stomach. Everything is fine, so long as the fluid remains within. However, a man's muscle is meat. We wanted you to see so you could comprehend.” 

Black Dog looked at the jar blankly. 

Jin held out a hand to Byrne. From inside his jacket the Irishman pulled out a handled metal coil similar to a narrow corkscrew, only the length of his lower arm. Jin approached the table while Byrne sliced through his shirt with a knife.

My heart leapt to my throat. My hands pumped into fists. I wasn't certain what they were going to do, but I ached to hold that handle!

Jin traced a finger along the bare flesh. “No, we must be careful. The spleen would be too quick. Ah. Right here should be fine.”

The chains rattled as Black Dog's thrashed in the limited space. “What are you doing?”

Byrne flashed him a grin. “What you did to our boss. Only slower. Much, much slower.”

Jin drove the sharp tip into the flesh and gave it a deft turn. It bit into the flesh and rode the spiral down. Black Dog released a piercing scream. His mouth opened so wide I could see the rotting molars on the roof of it. Mercilessly, Jin didn't pause. He flipped his hand around and gave the screw another turn renewing the desperate cries. 

My hands pumped with each turn. I savored his screams, remembering every horrid shudder of my Father. Each spasm would have scorched his inside even more. The urge to push Jin out of the way and drive that corkscrew through into the wood overwhelmed me. I would have done it, if Byrne hadn't grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. 

“No, Laddie. You let him do this. Jin mastered how to make it last. And for this piece of _shite_ , even the Good Lord knows he deserves it.” We watched from across the room.

Black Dog gasped each breath, the handle of the corkscrew and the length that remained outside of his body shuddered back and forth. 

Jin loomed over him. “Tell me who paid you to kill most honorable Erik and I will end this swiftly. Remain belligerent and I preserve you like Beaumont did. We can see what else can be gleaned by peering through holes.”

A quick death? No! This monster didn't deserve to die quickly.

He didn't reply. Instead, the Black Dog spat at Jin. 

Calmly, he wiped it from his face. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he bowed his head. “I honor your wish.” He yanked it straight back. 

The scream that filled the room drove my hands to my ears. Black Dog arched his back as the corkscrew briefly tented the flesh of his belly before popping out in a shower of yellow and red. Bits of flesh clung to the spiral.

Jin stood over him and let him breathe, watching stoically as his belly bounced up and down, punctuated by frantic sobs. Once he quieted, Jin leaned in close. “Again. Answer.” He waited for a full minute as the Black Dog muttered half coherent insults.

I tensed as I saw Jin raise the corkscrew and push into the bloodsoaked flesh. He placed the tip lower. Wordlessly he gave it the first twist. This time the cry was accompanied by a gurgled retching. 

I could not look away. Blood and bile pooled in the fleshy indentations until it overflowed, running in rivulets down the quivering flesh. All that left the man's lips was a mantra of vitriolic curses. When Jin finished setting the corkscrew, he stepped back beside us.

“This will take time. But he will speak.”

I pointed to the pool of blood on the ground. “He is losing too much. This will be too quick.”

Jin simply shifted his gaze to the lit stove with a flat metal iron beside it. “There are ways to stop bleeding. He  **will** speak.”

Byrne tugged me toward the door. “Gonna be a long night. Let's get you back home before you're missed.”

“No! I want to stay!” 

He shoved me through and shut the door behind us. “It's late and we need to leave Shaun to his work. He does not fancy folk watching. Took me a lot of chattering to convince him to let you in. Trust me, that  _gobshite_ will tell us anything we want to know by the time he's done with him. Now, up to the carriage we go. I'm to make sure you get all the way back home. No doublin' back.”

_Merde_! He had guessed my plan. In the back of the carriage I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. So close to revenge. So close. “That man shot my father.”

“Yah? But he ain't the bloke who really wanted to. Someone else, and that's what we have to learn.”

“Why didn't you let me do it?” I snarled.

Byrne snuffed. “Cause of that look in your eye right there. You wouldn't've stopped. What good is that? Just make another silent corpse and lose our chance at burying the bastard what killed your da.”

I looked down at my hands, the fingers curled into tight fists. Yes. Yes! I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to have felt the turn of the screw into his writhing flesh. The hot blood spilling over my fingers. I wanted to feel his flesh quaking beneath my grasp. Mercy. Only the mercy I could grant him, but I would deny it.

My breath came in harsh gasps as we pulled up to the corner of the manor. A chill came over me despite the humid air. 

I stared at my open hands and shivered. As I stumbled out of the carriage, my stomach churned and before I knew it I was retching into a bush.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_ **Chapter 15** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

I stared up at the tester, drenched in a cold sweat. I knew I wasn’t ill, but my stomach pitched and churned. Closing my eyes had done nothing to banish the images from my mind from earlier this evening. They remained vivid. The sharp metal point penetrating the body. Drops of blood clinging to shuddering flesh. 

My hands gripped the blanket. I fought to catch my breath in the darkness. The Black Dog’s screams echoed in my mind, refusing to be banished, they mingled with my father’s anguished cries. It wasn’t disgust. A fire burned within me with frightening intensity. I ground my teeth against the urge to ride back down to the  Phoenix Pavilion .

Vengeance. 

That word pulsed through my veins. The ambition was a hammer forging a searing blade with each beat of my heart. 

A blade I wielded with impotence for lack of a true target. 

Slowly I sat up, careful not to disturb the bed. Beside me, Simonetta lay in blissful sleep. Her hand rested on her belly. Our child. My hand hovered over hers. My sweet treasure protects our growing child even in her sleep.

Honor. Father had gone to that duel in an act of honor. Not only to protect himself, but to continue to ensure the future. After all, a blow to his reputation had previously cost me my engagement to Simonetta. His later sacrificial efforts had secured it for me. I cringed. Was this what it meant to be a father? 

Our child. How could I raise our child if I had failed to find the one responsible for taking the life of the man who raised me?

The torrent battered against my resolve. I slipped out of bed and snatched my robe on the way to the rooftop. There in the night air I might find some solace.

The moment I opened the door to the roof the heady floral scent hanging in the humid air struck me like a blow. Under the starlight, I staggered through the rows of planters overflowing with blooms. I leaned over the vibrant red roses. Mother must have been tending them in Father’s stead. She had been up here often enough.

Mother … oh God. I touched my eyelid. I’d been so caught up in healing from this embarrassment I had neglected to leave her the ribboned rose in the middle of each night. Brushing my fingers over their silk petals I heaved a sigh. Another failed intention.

I drifted to a stone bench and flopped down on it. Staring up at the pinpoints of light, I couldn’t help but be crushed under the weight of my insignificance. Why had I ever been so foolish as to think they would ever care about the paltry wishes of a child?

“Because, Son, at one point everyone believes that. There is no shame.”

There he was, languidly strolling through the roses. Each one received his tender caress as he passed. In the moonlight his white silk mask shimmered with a mystique. 

“There is where some wishes are concerned.” My nails dug into my knees. 

“Ahh. So it is the nature of the wish that tarnishes it.” He drifted through the aisle and sat down beside me.

I shook my head. “It’s overwhelming. The desire to rend limb from limb. I’m nearly fit to be tied to prevent me from going down to your old opium den. Father, the only refuge I could think of was where you used to go.”

He nodded. “To seek council under the stars.”

“It helped you.”

“Sometimes.” He chuckled. “But you forget, sometimes I woke up drowning in the rain from an opium overdose.”

I cringed at that. The bench I sat on now, had it been?

Father grinned. “Do you need to ask? Of course this was the place. Right within sight of my rose bushes your mother had rendered naked in her overindulgence. I cannot say how I looked once I staggered inside after waking in that raging thunderstorm. But I can say it gave Carnegie pause to consider my faculties. Something he never would have questioned had it not been for my careless neglect.”

“I don’t mean to be—”

“And neither had I.” He leaned back and braced himself with one arm. “At the time, my world had become a swirling storm. My pride forbade me to admit that I was being foolish, forbade me from seeking help. For my pains, I was left scrambling to repair the crack in my precious facade of confidence.”

Facade. I shivered as I remembered the determined glare of Black Dog … up until he had experienced Jin’s skills. Countless men had stood before Father in the past. Their grisly ends recorded in detail by his hand. Their stares had been filled with bravery before they had recognized their fate. In Father’s account of each death there had been a cold passion, similar to how he described carving stone. So different from the impotent rage that clawed at me. I lowered my head into my hands. “How could you remain so calm?”

“Calm?” 

“Yes. So … so disconnected when you acted? When you watched a man take his final breath?”

“Calm is not precisely how I would have described it, Charles. It was essential to have a certain level of detachment from the act. Something I learned early in my life. I was not like anyone else.”

I pounded my knee. “This is driving me mad!”

He grasped my wrist and stilled the fit. “It most certainly will, if you allow it.”

“But you could do this. In the blink of an eye you could defend yourself without regret.”

He shook his head. “Are you determined to join me? That would be foolish.”

“But Father … ”

“Tell me, since it plagues your mind, if you were to learn of whom was behind this, what would be your brilliant plan?”

Before I could answer he held out a hand and continued.

“Would you present yourself to them unarmed such as you did with the man who was ordered to pull the trigger? A man who left you with something to remember him by. Charles, you did not live as I. And you are only beginning to comprehend why I thank the stars for that.”

Heat burned on my cheeks as I rubbed my eyelid. What would I do? I hadn’t even considered for a moment … just as I hadn’t when I had raced to Five Points.

“You dart for the obvious, my boy. That is your inexperience. Some men only think in terms of a direct strike. Others find subtler tactics. There are many ways to bring a man to his knees.”

It came to me out of a fog. Byrne and Jin. Byrne had been following Black Dog, hoping he would talk. They had waited, watched and in time, Black Dog had grown careless and left them that opening to take his unconscious body prisoner. The long wait, the game of a predator. I looked into Father’s mismatched eyes. Beneath the rim of his mask, he smiled.

“Patience. Many a time I waited, let the others collect the whispers. Then we simply let the target believe the guard was down.”

“A feint.” I almost felt a practice sword in my hand.

He nodded. “With a planned strike they never saw coming. Watch and learn. When the world thinks you are at ease, they begin to betray themselves. Let them. It is all the more satisfying when a man’s own actions become his demise.” 

“How long must I wait?”

His shoulder fell in a shrug. “However long it takes for the fool to assume he has won. He will announce his presence.”

“How can you be certain?”

“It is but a tiresome trait of human nature. The price of pride.” He stood and helped me to my feet. “Now, for your part in this. You must appear at ease and you can hardly do so twitching from lack of proper sleep. To bed with you.”

I don’t remember walking down the stairs to the bedchamber. But in the morning, I awoke to Simonetta nestled close to me, her head buried beneath my chin. I placed a hand on her belly and felt movement.

“I promise,” I whispered, “I always protect you.”

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

Mister Arkwright skimmed the file on his desk for longer than any of the other four firms I had visited over the last days. Across from him, I sat trying to pass the uncomfortable silence staring at the crown molding. This place had a touch to it, like every building my father had designed. Maybe that’s why I thought this would be the place. After all, Daugherty and Arkwright had consulted and hired my father to build their firm’s main office. 

And yet, Father had never trusted anyone with his books. Any besides Nadir, who had fumbled through the time when Father was too ill to do it himself. No. Throughout the entire existence of Shadowcrest Industries, his ledgers had never been handled outside of the mansion’s study. Part of me understood Father’s paranoia. But I was overwhelmed by his complex holdings. It would take me years to learn how to effectively handle the finances.

At long last, Arkwright reached the final page and cleared his throat. “Well, Monsieur Daae, I must say this is quite an impressive file. I can see why you would be seeking assistance.”

“It’s not that I don’t know business,” I blurted out too swiftly, “merely … I was not prepared to have inherited this so soon. The intricacies are a little more than I have time to devote to. I am hoping to find someone who might be skilled enough to handle things as my father had.”

Arkwright bowed his head. “What a tragic loss. Monsieur Erik was a gifted man. Daugherty and I are honored to have worked with him. We are a large firm. I am certain we can find someone suitable for your needs.”

I was about to reply when the door opened and a man close to my age walked in with a large stack of files. He proceeded to set them on the desk. “Pardon the intrusion, Sir. But you did insist on Snodgrass’s files delivered to you once they were finished.”

I stiffened. Snodgrass? The same man who had called out Father?

Arkwright folded his hands in front of him. “Thank you, Mister Perth. I didn’t expect those before the end of the week.”

Adjusting his tie, Perth rocked back and forth on his heels. “It was hardly any trouble. You know you can always depend on me, Sir.” His eyes glanced down at the file. A moment later he stiffened and glanced at me.

Hunger burned into those eyes. The same ambitious greed I had seen in every other accountant who had touched those pages. I didn’t need to hear him speak, but I was too slow to prevent it.

“A new client? Oh, Mister Arkwright this looks terribly complex. Please let me take it.”

Arkwright closed the file and gave him a lazy stare. “Perth, you have your own clients as well as having taken on a good portion of the re-balancing we have had to recently do until we fill the vacancy. No, there are others in the firm who would be better suited.”

But Perth didn’t back down. He grabbed the edge of the desk. “I beg you, Sir. This is a prestigious file, one like no other. What accountant wouldn’t leap at the chance to glimpse the structure of Monsieur Erik’s hidden empire.”

I stood and glared at Arkwright. “At this rate no accountant ever will.” The man at least had the sensibility to look abashed. “Thank heavens I had sense enough not to have brought the whole blessed ledger to you vultures!”

“Monsiuer Daae, please sit back down.”

Wordlessly, I held out my hand for the file. Father was right. That was all these wretched men wanted. To get their claws into what he had so painstakingly built. So carefully protected. 

Arkwright slowly picked the file up, his gaze lingered on the meager sampling of father’s accounts I had copied from the master ledger. It hung in the air between us, just shy of halfway to my waiting hand. 

I snatched it and turned for the door, slamming it behind me.

As I stormed across the floor I heard Arkwright’s enraged voice breaching the door. The surrounding employees turned their heads toward the office in muted awe. Their eyes widened.

If this was how firms conducted themselves, then I would simply have to do as Father had. Keep the books to myself.

 

 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_ **Chapter 16** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

My task was far easier declared than done.

The next day, by mid afternoon I flopped my head onto my folded arms. The open ledger on the desk might as well have been written in Chinese. I would have comprehended it to no lesser a degree. All I had managed to do was make a mess of the once tidy columns. I had been gifted with music, not arithmetic. 

With a sigh, I glanced over at the stack of Father's journals beckoning me to resume my search. No, I couldn't stop now. The sooner I figured all this out, the better. 

Sitting up, I took a long look at the columns, this time not writing anything just reading.

Mother and Simonetta entered the study in mid-conversation. I flashed them a weary smile. Simonetta brightened as she glimpsed what I was doing. “Should we go somewhere else?”

I waved them to the couch. “Be my guest. I'm not getting anywhere anyhow.”

“I thought you were hiring an accountant.”

“So did I.” I grumbled. “Weren't you two interviewing mid-wives?”

She nodded as Mother helped her get seated. “We just finished.”

Mother sat down beside her. “Now comes the hard part. Which one?”

“Oh dear, I'm not sure.”

“Take your time. This is an important decision.”

Idly I ran my fingers down the column. But the numbers didn't matter. I found my attention wavering to their discussion.

“I can't even begin to choose.”

Mother chuckled and held a hand. “Alright, let's make this simple.” She ticked off a finger. “Fischer is out. That woman had the demeanor of a wolverine. That won't do you any good.”

“Mother Daae!” she gasped.

“I'm just being honest, my dear. There's no sense in mincing words between us. Besides, I saw how uncomfortable you were with her. You want your midwife to be someone sweet.”

“What about Miller?”

Mother paused. “There is such a thing as too sweet. Miller was a splendid woman, but I have to wonder what she would be like if things didn't go smoothly.”

Simonetta inhaled. Her hand covered her mouth. “You don't suppose … ”

“Now, don't you fret about that. However, one never knows. And that is what your midwife is for. She ought to be knowledgeable enough to handle a problem. There was a bit of naivete about her. Not quite enough experience.”

They lapsed into a short silence before Simonetta meekly asked, “What about Boughfry?”

Mother placed a hand on hers and grinned. “I said experienced, not ancient, my dear. I daresay I have to wonder if she even has that many days left in her life. No. It is a wonder that she is still advertising her services.”

I chuckled, “Well, some people are so passionate they never retire.”

“Leave your father out of this, young man.” Mother smirked at me. “He would have made a terrible midwife.”

Simonetta giggled. “I can't get that image out of my mind.”

“What?” I leaned back in the chair. “Father knew a great deal about herbs and tending wounds.”

“That's hardly the same as delivering a baby.” Mother's eyes glistened with amusement. “For one thing, your father would have over reacted. Giving birth is a difficult process. Pain is part of that.”

Beside her, Simonetta placed her hands on her belly and looked down.

“In the midst of the delivery your father would have been trying to hasten things along. But it takes time. A good midwife is patient, steady, and wise.”

“Father was all those things.” I offered for the sake of the argument.

It was Mother's turn to smile triumphantly. “Ahh, but he was also inexperienced with the rhythms of a woman's body. Even for all his vast knowledge, Erik would have been barred entrance to my room for a birthing.”

“Why?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because I would have found his incessant lecturing unbearable and likely would have kicked him.”

Simonetta laughed. “Not just lecturing you. I could see him ordering the baby on the proper position.”

“Quite right.” Mother sat up straight and did her best impression of Father's voice. “Straight on out, head first. You are not fast enough. Stop straggling behind. Be sharp about it now!”

We were all laughing now. 

“No.” Mother wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. “As loving as he was, that is a moment where I wouldn't have wanted his constant attention. Now, back to the task at hand. There are a few more to discuss. What about Havor?”

Simonetta shivered. “Her hands were cold. And I got a creepy feeling the way she looked at me.”

“Alright. So that leaves Deerburn and Harpsly.”

She grew quiet, rubbing her belly. “They were both nice. Deerburn had a firm, but gentle handshake. When she palpated me, it didn't make me feel uneasy. Harpsly was a little more serious. She sounded like she's dealt with almost anything.”

“The decision is yours. You must feel confident with your midwife.”

“Do I have decide right now?”

Mother took her hand. “No, by the look of it we have some time. We can send word when you are sure.”

“I would be lost without you.” 

“Nonsense. Your mother would be helping you.”

Simonetta shrugged and looked away. 

I pushed up from the desk and came over to kneel beside her. Hurt dwelt in her eyes. Maybe I should have told Mother about their argument at the Chantelli's. Secretly, I had hoped it would resolve itself. Some quiet gesture of apology would show up here. 

But, it never happened. 

Simonetta wouldn't even tell me what it had been about. Just that her mother's words had cut her deeply.

My mother somberly watched as I embraced my wife. “This is her loss. You remember that. When our child is born she will have to wait until you are ready to permit her to visit.”

“Charles, we can't.”

I leaned back so I could see her worried face. “The hell we can't. If you want, I will take the blame. I will bar them visiting for the mother and child's health. Perhaps being on the outside looking in will offer your parents a perspective to value their daughter as much I do.”

“They'll be furious.”

I shrugged. “Let them be. When they learn a little humility then they can hold their grandchild. Not before.”

A smile played on her lips as she brushed a finger over the sickly remainder of my bruise. “Someone knocked some sense into you.”

I bowed my head. “No. It wasn't that. It was listening to the chatter in your father's parlor. The fact that he not only did nothing to stop the discussion, but openly supported Lord Dickering, did not sit well with me.”

She covered her mouth for a moment. 

“I saw you walk past the door. I had to look away from your father after my denouncement of Dickering's position concerning his wife.”

“I thought they were talking about your eye.”

I caressed her cheek. “No. Apparently among society I have become known as an effeminate fool ruled by the fairer sex's whims. And I could not care less about that.”

“But your reputation … ”

I shook my head. “Father was murdered defending his. And if men like Dickering are an indication of a man's worthiness, then I would rather be left out of that ridiculous dance. I don't regret the scorn my declaration brought me. I would earn it a hundred times over.”

Her eyes opened, she took my hand and placed it on her belly. Against my palm, the baby kicked. 

She smiled. “Our child can't seem to wait to meet you.”

“Patience, my infant. In due time and not a moment before.”

She nestled into my embrace. I rested my chin in her hair, inhaling the sweet perfume. Reminded me of violets. 

Quietly, Mother stood up and left the room with a smile on her face. 

To hell with the books. For as long as she wanted, I let Simonetta doze in my arms. The world could wait.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_ **Chapter 17** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

In the early evening, I found myself with only the pattering of rain on the study windows to keep me company. Simonetta, worn out from the lengthy activity of her interviews, had gone to bed after picking at her meal. At the desk I found no more joy in picking at the numbers in the ledger. Close to throwing the accursed thing off the balcony, I pushed it aside before my frustration got the better of me. 

Moving the kerosene lamp closer, I opened the next of Father’s journals and settled into my chair. My eye flicked to the last one I had finished. The echoes of Father’s vivid nightmare of being confined to an asylum haunted me. The vision had not been real, it could not have been. For in that year Father had been working busily on a number of projects, one of which was the Carnegie Hall Studio Towers. Mother and I had never considered committing him to an asylum—ever. Not even when he was at his worst. And yet, in his words, his tortured mind had made it reality. Rendered it inescapable. I shuddered, wondering what lie between the covers of this one. By the dark blush on the edges it appeared to be among the older ones. 

I opened the cover and stared blankly at the page. The writing looked nothing like Father’s usual elaborate scrawling. The first entry slashed across the page with a hasty urgency that frightened me. Some of the entries I had read from the time frame of Father’s maddening downward spiral had been effected, mostly due to light causing him pain. I suspected those had been penned in the darkest room possible. But this … this was different. I glanced up at the first date in the upper right hand corner. The day was smeared, but I could make out December 1882. Below the words pulled me into the page.

_This will not bear the usual meticulousness of my entries. I regret that I have been o_ _ _ut of sorts these last days. Somewhere in this debasing shithole of an apartment is the unfinished journal I have torn the room to pieces trying to find. Not that it says much, there is little to this wretched corpse of a building. I am thankful enough for having had the wisdom to hide most of our possessions elsewhere for the time being. Since I have last written, a chasm opened in the roof over the bed. This has left things in a rather unagreeable state as it has been snowing for days on end now. However, none of this matters. One would expect that I should be ecstatic over securing my first contract with a man named Reed for his conservatory. However, snatching that little victory involved a disquieting shock to me. And I confess to being quite overwhelmed with the situation. Of course, I daresay I may have handled it better had I benefited from the breath of the dragon verses being starved for it. I shall have to apologize to Nadir and explain my unusual behavior when I have my wits about me. For now, I try to recall the last few days with as much clarity as my raging temper permits._ _

_ _Early in the day, the ceiling admitted mother nature’s fury I had arrived at my client’s home to discuss the aforementioned contract. The servant was quite alarmed to see me, and immediately turned me away. At that appointed time, as it was, the master of house was currently meeting another architect. I fear I did not handle that rejection with proper manners, likely due to the insidious clawing of my need for opium eating away my resolve. Somehow I found myself discarded against the side the building in a rather rough fashion._ _

_ _When I reached for the ledge to help myself up, a small chip of stone fell into the snow at my feet. Not just any stone. But marble. Marble from my quarry at the north end of the island. This mystery has been plaguing me for months! Clients whom I have arranged to meet canceling when I arrive only to find this little token right outside seemingly waiting for me._ _

_ _Angered, I came back here and tried in vain to distract myself from these maddening tremors racking my body. My sensibilities rapidly declined and I vaguely remember a furious exchange with Nadir before the roof collapsed. Against all reason, I abandoned the tenement in favor of a raging winter storm, I can barely recall thanks to the fire in my veins._ _

_ _In my hazy fog, I came across a poor devil in an alley. More importantly, I caught the scent of opium off one of his assailants. I am ashamed to say that after relieving one of said assailants of his life, I began to rend his clothing to pieces in search of a source of relief. I found him wanting._ _

_ _However, by that time the victim had dispatched the other fellow and was kind enough not to keep the blessed poppy cake for himself. Secluded from the storm in an abandoned building, he shared a pipe with me. Shamefully, by this time I had required the wall to assist me in remaining upright. In shared words with this grateful man, one Antonino Gallo, I had a dreadful revelation. He had overheard conversation of the very man who had been leaving the chips and stealing my business. Not just mine, but many architects throughout all of Manhattan._ _

_ _I know the identity of the thief! VanHollus!_ _

_ _His method was to provide a note, purportedly from his rival architect, canceling the appointment. Then he would arrange a meeting with the client and steal the contract. The stone chips were nothing but a mockery to the men he was steadily driving to the poor houses._ _

_ _Granted, I am not far from one myself. I must not let that happen for obvious reasons._ _

_ _Hastily I went to Reed and begged to be permitted a chance to be heard. I’m not even certain what I had said, but the look on the man’s face when I proved the writing of the letters did not match was enough to earn me a chance. A chance I did not wait to seize. Minutes later I sat in an alcove while he watched as I drafted his conservatory. What followed was the first time since arriving in this accursed city that I had been invited to dine. The contract reverted to me, that was two days ago._ _

_ _Just before dark this evening my new associate, the resourceful Italian Gallo, returned to stand below the window. I had been expecting him sooner or later. He bore news._ _

_ _We proceeded to the VanHollus mansion, a garish mass of stone, where we eavesdropped below an open window. A great party carried on inside. I heard the man speak. It took every ounce of my self control not to climb into the room and throttle him to death. He spoke at length with one of his architects, a meek man named Shaw, if I heard correctly. This VanHollus intends to drive every architect and stone mason that he deems unworthy from the island. If he doesn’t employ them, he will ruin them. The nerve of that man! If he has been interfering with my every attempt to gain a contract, no wonder my situation is grim._ _

_ _Even his favored pet of an architect seemed bothered, for I heard him denounce him in secret through the window. Oh, someone will stop that scoundrel! I can assure you of that. He has crossed the wrong man by stealing from my quarry. When I am through, all of society will see him for what he is!_ _

I swallowed deeply. Opening the desk drawer I pulled out the stone chip I had found on the bed chamber floor. Marble. Could it be? But … what happened to this VanHollus? I had never heard Father bring him up. Of the many architects Father had mentioned over the years, that name had not come up even once, nor Shaw’s for that matter. And yet, here in these pages, the stage had been set for a bitter rivalry. 

Once more I paged back to the date. December 1882. It was now July in the year 1907, nearly twenty-five years had passed. 

I rubbed my eyes and let the weight of this sink in. Finally, a clue! Could there be a connection to this thief? I had to find the conclusion of their rivalry. 

The clearing of a throat caught my attention. I looked up to find the butler in the doorway. “Pardon me, Monsieur Daae. There is a most unusual man in the parlor to see you.”

I glanced at the brooding storm outside that abolished any light. The clock on the mantle told me it was after eight o’clock. Rather late in the day for a visitor.

“You let him in without checking with me?” 

The butler bowed. “Not at all, Sir. The man let himself in. He says it is urgent.”

I shot to my feet. What was this? I descended the staircase two at a time and wrenched the parlor door open. Inside I found the drapes drawn. A single lamp lit the room. Standing before the hearth a dripping wet Cormac Byrne offered me a tug of his hat. A moment later he yanked if off his head. “Pardon me, where are my manners? Eh, apologies for the drop by. ‘Fraid I startled a few of the servants when I came in their entrance. Rare enough a cause for me to come that way, I think they forgot.”

I cleared my throat and stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. In his hands I spied a box. My heart rammed into my throat making it impossible to speak.

He held out the box. “Something I figured you may want, you know, for the future.”

My hands shook a bit as I relieved him of the burden and set it on the table. An object clunked inside it. I opened the lid and found a flint pistol tarnished by God only knew what. The wood grains obscured by smudged stains. The metal barrel soot dull. I picked it up and felt the murderous weight in my hand. 

“Fore you ask, yeah, that was the trigger that did it. This here pistol belonged to Black Dog.”

The way he said ‘belonged’ knocked me out of my stupor. It had been days since last I had seen him. “Is he … ”

Byrne nodded curtly. “Only this afternoon. No one’ll ever see him again, save maybe a rat or three. Told yah, Jin’d make it last good and long. Not even Black Dog could hold his tongue through that.”

“Then he spoke?”

“Hah! Oh, he spoke all right. He cried like a wee babe, he did. Some gibberish. But not all.” Bryne pulled out a piece a paper. “Wrote it down, least the bits that seemed relevant. Turns out he never met the bloke who hired him. Snodgrass hisself delivered the payment.”

That didn’t sound right. “But he shot Snodgrass. And Snodgrass said something about getting to go after he had finished. No, Snodgrass couldn’t be the one behind it!”

“He ain’t. Look at the paper.” 

I unfolded the scrap and scanned through a few of the bits and pieces. Not much stood out until … “Daugherty and Arkwright?”

“Mmm hmm. Said that was where the cheque originated from.” 

My God, I had shown Arkwright some of Father’s ledger! I had almost laid the entire thing before their eyes! “Who signed it? Tell me, who signed it!”

Byrne shrugged. “That’s the thing. Black Dog said he couldn’t make it out and when he’d demanded Snodgrass tell him who had, the coward  shite himself and wouldna say a word.”

“Argh!” I threw my hands at the ceiling, one still wielding the unloaded pistol. “Damn it! With both of them dead there goes our only leads.”

“Not really. We have the firm. Doubt it was the two at the helm, though.” He mused, “after all, if I was trying to off someone I wouldna use something with my name on it. No Sir. So that leaves two possibles. Someone who wants to frame them, or some idiot who has access and thought he was being clever.”

“Suppose Snodgrass was framed.” I set the pistol in the box and stared at it. “From what I heard it sounded like he had a role to play in this, like someone had forced him. Perhaps it was his signature on the cheque. Or, he forged someone elses.”

Bryne sucked on his lip and nodded. “Could be. Good questions to ask. I take it you want me to go askin’ for you?”

“What else do we have to go on?” I sighed. It flowed into my head like molasses. “Wait… Byrne, does the name VanHollus mean anything to you?”

He scrunched up his face for a good half minute before blurting out, “Van Who?”

“VanHollus. He would have been an architect in the early 1880’s. Likely an aristocrat.”

He shook his head. “Dunno him. I met your da in March o’ ’88, saved me  arse from freezing to death when the blizzard buried the whole damn city. Shame Gallo ain’t around. Bet he would’ve known.”

I slammed my fist on the table. “He did know! He’s the one who told Father. Where can I find Gallo?”

Bryne grew somber. “Wish we knew, but fact is we never found the rest of ’em. Those wretched bastards from the Middle East somehow got him. Pissed off your da mightly.”

Each breath came in a huff. The silence lasted too long as I stared at the pistol. Fate raised my ire to a fever pitch. 

“Eh,” Byrne snatched my hand as I reached for the pistol. “Let’s not go flinging that around. You tuck that away for the right time. This ain’t over. Let me see what my ol’ ears can tease out of the crowd. Have a bit of patience, Sir. Takes time to flush out the devil.”

More. There were many more entries in the journals. Perhaps they would hold the key.

“Show my self out the quiet way. Back when I have more word.” Bryne slipped out the door. 

After a few minutes I trudged back up the stairs with the box in my hand. I hid it deep in the back of a drawer and then resumed reading the journals. Or rather, hastily skimmed the remainder. VanHollus’s name popped up over the course of the new year. 

I dug through the stack, opening the covers in search of the early years. Anything outside of 1881 to 1888 I set aside. Lightning flickered outside the window, the storm intensified as I dove deeper into the maddening race that Father had somehow survived. All that mattered to me was finding VanHollus. 

Tucked in an entry in 1885, the year Father had completed this mansion, I held my breath. A deranged VanHollus had intruded on the celebration of the manor’s completion. Not only that … he had attempted to poison my father! He had failed only because Father had employed his sleight of hand to switch glasses. VanHollus’s panicked departure after that revelation revealed to everyone his act of foul play. No one could blame my father for what followed. For he had even attempted to clear the poison and sent him off to doctor. 

Days later, Gallo had sent word that VanHollus had survived. However, he had been secreted off to New York City Asylum for the Insane, a place more suited to handle his rather ‘delicate’ condition.

I grabbed the map of the city from the stacked drafts behind me and spread it out. Somewhere. It had be on here somewhere! Finally, a lead. My finger traced every block, read every finely scripted detail. Of all the asylums, none bore that name.

A bolt of lightning struck outside, not even a second later the thunder shook the very stones. 

The bedchamber door opened and Simonetta walked across the study, her eyes blurred with sleep. “That strike was close.”

I nodded. “Yes … ”

She came to the desk and eyed the map and the journal. Her shoulder fell. “Oh, my love, what are you doing now?”

“I found something.”

“What?”

“A man.”

“You’re looking for a man on a map?”

I growled. “No. I’m looking for where he was last sent in 1885. I must find the New York City Asylum for the Insane.”

She started, “Charles, … ”

“Where is it! It has to be here somewhere, Father never got things wrong. If that’s what he wrote, that’s where VanHollus went. And this VanHollus left him the stone chips.”

“Charles, you won’t … ”

“Perhaps he got better, perhaps they released him.”

“Charles … ”

“What?” I slammed my hand on the map and glared at her.

“You won’t find it like that.”

“Why not?”

She lowered her eyes to the map. “Because it hasn’t been called that for sometime now.”

I paused, straightening up beside her. “How … how do you know?”

Her eyes snapped shut. “My mother’s brother. They committed him there. That used to be the name of it, but not now.”

Slowly, she forced her eyes open and stared at me, trembling.

“Simonetta,” I caressed her cheek. “Please tell me. I need to find this man.”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to go there, Charles. It’s a terrible place.”

I grasped her shoulders. “Love, please.”

With a trembling hand she pointed to Ward’s Island on the East River side. In the middle of the island just south of central was the name Manhattan State Hospital. 

I embraced her and kissed her forehead. “Tomorrow, at first light, I am going there.”

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

By morning the rain had not abated. Leaden skies soaked the city as the carriage splashed through the streets to the northeast end of the island. I was forced to leave my carriage and charter a ferry to cross the Harlem River to what the captain wryly called an  _ _island of the undesirables_ _ _.  _ I had never imagined how difficult it would be to find passage there. The first three ferrymen refused, claiming the storm surges were a threat. As we crossed the river smoothly enough, I had to wonder if this captain had robbed me. It didn’t matter. All I wanted was to be on that island. To find out where this man, this VanHollus had gone to.

Once the ferry docked, by some miracle I managed to catch a ride with a cart of supplies bound for the Manhattan State Hospital. The entire way there, the man chattered on idly. I scarcely listened as the stately buildings passed us by. Grand architecture rose from the desolation, each one made me shudder as we passed. 

Toward the center of the island we came upon the expansive Gothic building sprawling in isolation. The beautiful details could not conceal the bars on the windows. The wings stretched out to me like grasping arms, threatening to keep me here … forever. 

The cart rumbled to a stop and I slid off, wordlessly. I drifted into the building trying to numb myself. The stories that came out of these places, the hellish treatments of the inmates … had VanHollus even survived? 

The main entrance held a presentation of normalcy. A few offices had cheery paintings visible through the door. Had I been expecting patients to be drooling over themselves right inside the door? Certainly that was incredulous. A well-dressed man stuck his head out an office door. He looked me up and down for a moment before waving me into the office.

He reached across his desk. “Superintendent Marshwood, at your service.”

I shook his hand. “Monsieur Charles Daae. I am sorry to arrive unannounced. But I am looking for someone who came here sometime ago.”

Marshwood and I both took our seats as he replied cordially, “We keep solid records here, of course. The board is very critical of that. We have a good number of patients, who are you looking for?”

I handed him a slip of paper with the entire name written out on it, including the man’s title. After all, I was uncertain how much would be needed.

The superintendent’s eyebrows rose. “My, one of those. Let me see what I can find.”

He turned and pulled out a draw. Silence followed, only disturbed by the flicking of cards as he rummaged through draw after draw. Some minutes had passed before he shook his head. “Strange. I’m not finding any sign of this …” he held up the paper and squinted, “ …  Jonkheer Cobus Bonifaas Guus VanHollus. Perhaps he came in under an assumed name?”

I sighed. “It was so long ago, I have no idea how to trace that back to 1885.”

He stood up with surprise. “’85? My, no wonder I had no luck. Hold on a moment.” He vanished into an attached room for what seemed like forever. When he returned he held up a file. “Here we are. I doubt anyone else would have such a mouthful of a name.”

I leaned forward. Hope. There was hope in that file. “Where is he? I must know where he is now!”

Marshwood flipped through the file. “Hrm … these are the older records, prior to the state taking over management. Some notes on his mental condition. Treatments performed. Behavior. No death certificate.”

“Then … he was released?”

Marshwood shook his head and closed the file. “No. He is still here.”

I stood up faster than I intended. “I need to see him. Please! He may know something very important.”

Somberly, Marshwood observed me. “Are you certain you wish to? The halls are not for the faint of heart.”

“Yes. Please.”

“One moment.” He heaved a heavy sigh and pulled out another book. “Let me see where he is being kept.”

Within a half hour the superintendent summoned an attendant. I followed him through the series of barred doors, unlocked one at a time. Hall after hall was filled with rows of steadfast doors. Each one locked. Curses, wails, and sobs filled the air as we passed, our step’s echo announcing our presence. 

This place pressed down on me as I walked through … my God, twenty-two years held captive. Over two decades listening the screams, pounding on the door begging to be released … that was what had happened. Not some miraculous recovery that released him to the world. 

But why would they have? VanHollus had publicly attempted to murder Father. Clearly he had been driven to madness. Was he inside his cell delivering instructions to a man to carry them out? 

Finally, the attendant stuck a key in a door at the end of an ill-lit hall. “Not sure why we bother with the lock.” He murmured. “Suppose better to be safe. Anyway, here you are.” He opened the door and stepped aside, hanging just over my shoulder.

I stared rudely at the gaunt man lying in the bed. His limbs so stripped of flesh that I doubted he could stand to take a piss, let alone pose a threat. His rheumy eyes gazed at the wall, taking no notice of the open door. Wisps of unkempt hair tangled against the pillow. All he did was murmur snatches of words, never a complete one. Not even a short one!

This was no grand mastermind. This lump of wasted flesh was a ruin. “How … how long has he been like this?”

“He’s one of the quieter ones.” The attendant shrugged. “Unchanged in the three years since I have been here.”

“Does anyone ever visit? Family, children?”

He shook his head. “Sane folks don’t come here much. Just dump the lunatics here and forget about them. I’ve never seen anyone with this one. Doubt he’s got children, seeing as how they castrated him when he came in.”

My blood ran cold. I fought the urge to lock my eyes on that patch of his blanket. Involuntarily my hand covered my groin. “Good heavens … why?”

Coldly the attendant replied, “Eugenics. Have to cut off the chances of his madness contributing to further generations.”

A shiver rammed up my spine. “I … I’ve seen enough.”

Somehow I managed to swallow the acid burning my throat through the full expanse of the building. The moment I had cleared the front door I darted for a nearby bush and proceeded to see my breakfast splatter on the leaves.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_ **Chapter 18** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

The next morning I walked the two short blocks to Carnegie Hall. The recent rain left a thick cloud of fog wreathing the city. Step by step, I watched in awe as Father's monument to music rose out of the swirling mists. For a moment, I had to stop and pinch myself it seemed so much a dream. Was that something that even worked? If one pinched oneself in a dream would one feel it? Father described vivid dreams that involved all of his senses. I was beginning to comprehend why he wrote everything down, likely it was how he teased out reality from his fevered fantasies. Today I walked as if a dreamer in what I trusted was the real world.

Like so many other days, I engaged in my tutoring with a detachment. Unlike those days, the reason differed. Today, I didn't want to return to the study and dive back into snaring threads of Father's past. I longed for a time to reflect on the heart-wrenching revelation of late.

When my final student left, I took my flute in hand and wandered the halls aimlessly in search of some deserted place to play out my subconscious. 

As I approached the stage door of the main auditorium, I staggered to a halt. Notes drifted in the air, Father's violin. A duet Father and I had collaborated … only the violin played alone. I stared down at my flute. The lonely string instrument beckoned for the accompaniment.

I raised the flute and played in, proceeding through the darkened wing out into the dimly lit stage. Damrosch turned my way as I emerged from the shadows. He nodded before looking back at the music stand. The music haunted the auditorium. Two instruments with a rich history once more united in song.

We clung to the final note, letting it ring out in the vast auditorium. Silence followed. I stared morosely down at the flute in my hand. 

Damrosch closed the music on the stand. “My apologies, Charles. I thought I was alone.”

I shook my head. “No apology needed … it's just, I hadn't played that work with Father in some time. It brought back … memories … regrets.”

“Regrets?” 

The flute trembled in my hand, an embodiment of my betrayal. “How could I have been so callous? I had known what I was doing when I chose this. I had known what a slap in the face it was to him.”

Damrosch sighed and stared at the Stradivarius in his hand. “It was still music.”

“That's not the half of it. It was something I knew he could never do, no matter how much he tried. It was so cruel. Years he had been patiently teaching me piano and violin. And in a moment of shallow jealousy, I latched onto a vicious barb at his pride.”

“There is no doubt, he was hurt when he found out.” Damrosch walked across the stage and laid the violin back in her case on the honored chair. “I remember vividly his words when he returned after that concert at Harkness Academy.”

My shoulders fell. 

“But … it didn't end there. And you know it. As Erik watched you strive in your own direction, he rapidly brimmed with pride. Certainly, he was incapable of playing the flute. But when you came to him, and for advice all the same, he was astonished at your skill. At the heart, of it you two shared in the act of creation. And in time he admired your ambition.”

I drifted along the edge of the stage, aimlessly letting his words play out in my mind. “Even though it bothered him that he couldn't do it?”

Damrosch walked beside me. “You made a choice, and you stuck with it even in the face of his fury. That showed conviction. The result is, you are a virtuoso and a sought after tutor. You know he was proud of you.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. 

Damrosch stopped me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I always felt a thrill to hear you two duet at the concerts. Never more-so than when Erik was in his prime with his Stradivarius. I know you still mourn his loss. But don't torment yourself on the stings of your Father's pride. In all the time I knew him, that was his greatest adversary, his own insufferable pride.”

I heaved a sigh. “His downfall … and yet … not only his own.” Yesterday's ill-fated trip teased me.

“What is it?”

I shook my head and tried to turn away. He wouldn't let me. 

“Charles. I know that look. I know that look from your Father. What is wrong?”

My fingers played soundlessly on the flute keys. “I thought I solved it. Damrosch, I thought I figured out who was behind Father's murder. But it couldn't have been him.”

He stiffened. “You're still hellbent, I should have seen it.”

When I shuddered he fell silent, his eyes narrowed in concern. “I went to Ward's Island yesterday.”

“Good heavens, why?”

“In Father's writings I found a story about a rival of his early years in Manhattan. This man left the clue of a stone chip from his rival's quarries to show he had stolen an architect's contract. Father chose to stand up to this man.”

“That comes as no surprise. Erik was rather unyielding in his nature.”

“This lasted for years before Erik's success apparently drove the rival to utter madness. He tried to kill Father in his own house with poison and only managed to poison himself. Everyone there witnessed it, and it was in such a manner that left no doubt who the aggressor was. Their rivalry had been the talk of city for some time.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. “That man is still alive. I had been so convinced I would go to the asylum and find out he had been released. That he was behind this. I would track him down and make him explain. But … after all these years, after two decades in an asylum, he still lives as a poor muttering wretch. I'm not even sure he knows where he is. You should have seen him. That … wasn't a man anymore.” 

When I lapsed into silence Damrosch released my shoulders and took a step back. His eyes grew distant. “I wish I knew what to say.” He sighed. “Over the time I knew Erik he gained enemies, many from jealousy over his skills. The story comes as no surprise. Jealousy can be a treacherous dance partner.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “But it doesn't make sense! If it clearly isn't the shell of a man in the asylum, who is it? Whoever did this must've known about their rivalry. It's too specific.”

“Charles.” Damrosch looked me in the eye. “Be careful. Remember that your Father's greatest enemy was his own pride. Don't let your own drive you blindly forward into this.”

“Am I to just let them get away with this?” I snapped, my hand gripping the flute like a club. “Am I to just walk allow them to walk free? They murdered Father! Don't you care?”

“Of course I do. But, what will you do when you find them?”

Anger surged through me … only to abandon me on the revelation. I had no answer to that.

He cleared his throat. “You have a wife, and your family is just beginning.” He held up a finger. “Don't think I haven't noticed. Simonetta has not been out as much of late, if she were ill you would have mentioned it. Right now you need to keep your eyes on the future.” 

The flute tapped my leg as I let my arms hang at my side. 

“Or at least you should try.”

I nodded absently. The silence stretched out until at last, looking out over the rows of velvet chairs, I found my voice. “Do you still hear him?”

Damrosch blushed before he could look away. “Yes. When I take up his violin I swear he lingers in the shadows, summoned by her voice. He may be gone, but I don't think he has left.” He turned back to me. “I suspect this Hall is like Paris to him. His spirit will always remain guarding her secrets.”

He bowed, crossed the stage, and left taking the Stradivarius with him. I sat on the edge of the stage for a time, listening to the silence. 

When at last I emerged into the afternoon, sunlight blazed down on the sweltering city. My thoughts remained a muddled mess. Part of me longed to resume searching the journals. And another part dreaded the tease of another fruitless thread. I trudged up the stairs to the study and flopped into the chair. 

Something wasn't as I had left it. I sat up. The journals were now on the far edge of the desk. The current ledger in the center of it, taking the the place of the journal I had been pouring through. Had I moved it there in anticipation of resuming? 

No. I hadn't even come to the desk the other day after returning from Ward's Island. 

So, why was it here? 

I opened it to the page I had assaulted in my attempt to comprehend the mess. The columns continued beyond my attempts. The writing, not my own. I blinked at the tidy numbers steadily progressing to some semblance of reason. Slowly, it dawned on me. Mother?

“ _Merde_! ” I snapped.

“Young man.” Mother's severe voice stole my attention, she glared at me from the bedchamber door. “I will tell you the same thing I told your father. Cursing in your mother tongue does not remove the vulgarity!” 

I was about to stutter an apology when she crossed the room and straightened my cravat roughly.

“Keep your voice down. Simonetta is taking a nap. This heat is troubling her.” Shamelessly she glanced at the ledger.

I cleared my throat. “Did you do this?”

“Did you suspect the ledger did it by itself?” She grinned. “Of course I did.”

“But how … ”

She laughed. “When your father was ill who do you think took care of the books for that time?”

“I thought it was Nadir.”

“We both managed things.” Mother crossed her arms, the black lace of her mourning dress falling over them. “Well, are you going to ask?”

I ran my fingers down the neatened columns. Everything seemed to be adding up. “When did you do this?” 

“Not the question I was expecting, but the answer is today while you were at the Hall.”

She'd done all this, today? I swallowed the lump of my pride and murmured, “Mother, would help me with the ledgers?”

Her hand rested on mine. “Of course I will. You know, Son, all you ever need to do is ask. We will get through this together.”

* * * * *

_**~Christine~** _

“I know … I know I shouldn't be here.” I stood below the crowned oak with my fingers interlaced. 

Erik was there, reclining in the boughs with the violin resting in his hands. He observed me quietly before offering me a soft smile. “I did not say you could not come, my love. Merely you should not linger. Something troubles you.”

I touched the rough bark of the tree and gazed up at him. “Charles worries me.”

Erik chuckled. “He is a grown man, you mother him too much.”

“If only it were that. No, my Angel. There is a strange light to his eyes and it worries me. I know he has not heeded my warning. He has continued to read your journals. I found a map of the city on your desk. The open page of the journal mentioned a man's fate as an asylum. Simonetta told me Charles had been frantic to learn more.” I closed my eyes. “Yesterday he went there. I know he did! When he returned he was white as the driven snow. He never uttered a word, just went up to the bedchamber. Simonetta heard him muttering in his sleep last night. Erik, I worry he is driving himself to madness.”

He unfolded his wings and glided down to me. His fingers brushed my chin. “No. That fate shall not be our son's.”

I embraced him, tightly. “Help me, help me convince him. Whenever I mention letting this go he closes me out. He will do anything to find out who is behind this. And I fear the cost will be too great.”

“Charles is a willful boy. To turn him from his goal will take nearly as much as it had to change my mind. It can be done, but it will be a monumental task.” He held me close. “Guide him, my love. Be that quiet whisper of reason … or I fear all will be lost.”

I closed my eyes. “I should just take your journals and destroy them.”

“Then he would never forgive you.” He turned my face to look at him, sorrow in his eyes. “Was it not you who told me of the pain endured bearing the burden of great loss? When you thought you would never see me again?”

A tear coursed down my cheek. My heart squeezed in my chest at the memory. “I could never do that to him.”

“The choice belongs to him. Listen to the silences. The truth lies within what one dares not say. I should know.” He somberly smiled, “how long did it take me to say _I love you_?”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_ **Chapter 19** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Christine~** _ _

My hands worked the lace in the mid-afternoon sunshine pouring through the study's open windows. A lovely bright day which required no aid from a lamp for the task. I hummed idly to myself to keep from chuckling at Simonetta's remark that, at this rate the child would drown in lace. Possibly, but I would prove a poor grandmother if the child was attired poorly. While Simonetta retired to a nice bath, aided by a few servants, I continued my task of hooking as much lace as it would take to drape a full stage curtain. My heart went out to the poor woman. By now, the swelling of her belly had made some tasks quite difficult for her. And the blazing early August heat was not helping to comfort her. I only hoped that a cool Epsom salt soak would offer some relief.

If only there were a swifter solution for my son's condition. 

Out of the corner of my eye I spied on him as he leaned over the desk hour after hour, turning the journal pages with a rude fascination. Infused with Erik's words, they enthralled him. All my attempts to break the spell had utterly failed.

Marie brought the tray of afternoon tea into the room, walking purposefully toward Charles. A thought struck me. “Marie, be a dear and bring it here, please. I should love some, but I'm in the middle of counting.”

Her eyebrows rose, but she instantly complied and changed her path to the table beside me. “As you please, Madame. Will there be anything else?” Her hands hovered in the air, about to prepare a cup for Charles, as had been the routine I had blatantly interrupted. 

I calmly prepared a cup for myself. The other would wait on the tray. “Nothing more at the moment. Why don't you go and see how Simonetta is enjoying her soak? Perhaps bring in some nice lavender to scent the room to ease her?” 

Marie bobbed a little curtsy and departed.

I stirred a squeeze of lemon in my tea, clanking the spoon noisily on the side.

Belatedly, Charles looked up from the desk, his face slack as he stared at the placement of the tray so very far from him. By now Marie was too far down the hall for him to summon her to prepare him his cup. That left him with the two options I had intended. The first would be to ask me to prepare it for him, something a gentleman would not do. The second would be the one I desired.

With a sigh, he pushed up from the desk as I took the first pleasant sip of my tea. He took two steps, then glanced back and snatched the journal, bringing it with him. Hastily he prepared himself a cup from the teapot. His hand faltered the moment he released the handle. His shoulders fell as he stared at it on the table with defeat.

If he went back to the desk, he would be forced to cross the room for each cup.

He settled down on the couch beside me, sipping quietly as he paged through the journal on his lap. I smiled at the little victory. So like his father. One could not ask, one needed to coerce the change in some subtle way. Charles had been dislodged from the desk at least.

Three cups of tea later, he had to set the cup down as he broke into laughter. 

I glanced over at him. “Something amuses you?”

It took him several moments to catch his breath. “I had wondered why the night of your first wedding anniversary you both came home sopping wet! There hadn't been a cloud in the sky.”

I set the lace in my lap and rolled my eyes. “You shouldn't laugh. Erik labored to make that day special. It wasn't his fault when the fountain pump blew a clog and drenched everyone in the vicinity.”

“I wish I could have seen that.”

“What part of it? Your father serenading me down on one knee? The moment the fountain made that awful guttural belch, a second before the pressure sent the cherub statue's conch shell heavenward?”

Charles picked up the journal and skimmed the page. “Or the moment when my soaking wet father stood in the fountain and berated the statue for raining on your special moment. As if the stone could have apologized!”

I laughed at the memory. “He had spent an entire week organizing it all. Only to have a disaster occur.”

“Or as he put it, _the aqueous version of Pompeii_ _._ ”

“Ahh, well, that does sound his flare for the dramatic.” 

Charles shook his head. “I had no idea he was such a … romantic. I mean, I saw you two on the stage. But that was a performance.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “You think so? Let me see. That was our first anniversary, so if I remember correctly … ” I reached over and took the journal from him. Paging through Erik's neat lettering, I skimmed past the remainder of that fateful evening. Had he recorded it, I wondered? A few pages later I grinned. He had. 

I handed the book back to Charles and pointed at the first paragraph. “Read what happened later that night.”

“Heh, so the bed chamber door closes.” He smirked after skimming the first line. 

I waited, folding my hands in my lap as his eyes traveled back and forth over the page. At first with a slow deliberate pace, but it did not remain that way. His features grew slack, his eyes darting back and forth as though the words could not be read fast enough. Sweat blossomed on his brow as he flushed bright as a turnip. He nearly gave himself a paper cut as he flipped to the next page and continued on.

He must have reached the end of the passage. As he lowered the journal and lifted his trembling gaze to meet mine, his voice little more than a gasp, “Mother!”

I smiled triumphantly. “Somehow it didn't surprise me that he wrote that down. It was quite an experience for both of us.”

Charles swallowed and blurted out, “Why did you show me that?”

“You would have read it yourself in a few pages. Besides, it was a lovely apology, and all he could think of to make up for how the evening had gone. Not that he had to apologize for things beyond his control. But you know your father.”

He shook his head with his eyes clenched tight. “It's not that … ” He picked the journal up and skimmed it again. “Where the hell did he learn about that?”

I had to wonder if Erik had written down the conversation we had in the morning. Or, since it was known to him, he hadn't bothered. Of course in the haze of the morning I had asked him. Drowsily he recounted an origin I had never expected.

“Mother? Are you alright?”

I blinked and met his gaze. “Your father told you he spent time in Persia.”

“Of course.” Charles scoffed. “That's where Nadir was from.”

My fingers brushed against one another. “He didn't tell you everything. I know he didn't often speak of the time he was tormented by the khanum, the shah's spiteful mother. In her boredom Erik became her toy.”

“She did that … to him?”

I shook my head. “Oh no. She never dared to try. But as Erik told me, she was a perceptive viper, and after she realized how much he craved the loving caress of a female, she mercilessly taunted him by making him watch the shah's harem practice on one another. Erik suspected that she was testing his limits to resist his manhood. For a male to lay a hand on one of shah's harem would have meant certain death. He was a young man at that time, and such displays stirred a hunger in him worse than the claws for the next breath of opium. He was forced to lie alone in his chambers each night after being lashed by the lustful urges he had no release for.”

Charles sat on the edge of the couch leaning toward me. “You … you're not angry with him for that?”

“Why should I be? After all, Erik was still chaste the night you were conceived.” I shrugged. “He saw how the harem feared him, saw how they loathed him when the khanum forced him to remove his mask so she could rudely stare at his misery under her barbed torture. He knew none of those women saw him as a man. So his hand stayed. He never once touched one. Even when one was sent to his rooms. He returned her untouched.”

Charles swallowed and leaned back against the cushions. 

“I take it you have not seen any accounts of his time in the Persian courts yet?”

He shook his head and shivered. “A woman … a woman did that … to father?”

I nodded. “Nadir confirmed the vileness of the shah's mother. She is the one who dredged up Erik's dark fury at humanity and cast him as the Angel of Doom. All for her amusement. It took him some time, but once Erik realized the depth her wretched claws were in him, he came as close as ever to striking a woman for the first time.”

“But wait a moment. Father told me he fled because the shah ordered his beheading. That Nadir helped him escape, and he owed him. That's why he let Nadir live with him, repayment of a life debt.”

“If Erik had told you the whole of it, Charles.” I placed my hand on the journal. “She had turned her young son into a marionette. The words that fell from the shah's mouth were frequently discovered to be hers. Not by the courts. They did not see the strings, they would never have believed a woman to hold so much power. But Erik, as he saw beyond her veil, held no such reservations.”

More than a minute ticked by in silence. Charles stared at the page blankly. “So much perspective … ”

“Always on the outside looking in at the world. That was much of his life. And because of it, he glimpsed more of the truth than a whole counsel of men. But it wasn't always the darkness. Despite her vile intentions, Erik's imaginative nature gleaned great beauty from what she made him watch. She had teased him with what he could not have … he had analyzed the displays and comprehended what he had witnessed. That night in our bedroom when he suggested … something different, he was so timid about it and I hadn't understood why. That was until the morning when he spoke of the painful origin. He told me how in some way that night was a balm over the old wound. In that act, we had altered the past for him. In that success, he had triumphed over the shame of those memories. Our nights were never the same again.”

Charles blushed and took a gulp of the tea. “Really. I uhh … don't think I should … ”

I eyed the journal. “I do believe you will if you keep reading.”

I picked up the lace and resumed the pattern, humming softly. Beside me, Charles lingered with a cold cup of tea in his hands, staring blindly at the sunlight crossing the carpet.


	20. Chapter Twenty

_ **Chapter 20** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

Damrosch could not have asked for a better late August evening. The concert as usual had gone remarkably well with a standing room only audience. They had all come to hear _the Aviary_ , my father’s masterwork symphony. Over the last weeks, I had forced myself to push down the lump in my throat when we came to the _Nightingale’s Sonata_. As the first chair flute, the solo belonged to me. Somehow it had never really registered over all these years. Father had been known to wear a special mask for performances, a mask made up like the lyrical bird. People often whispered the nickname, Nightingale. In his masterwork, it was known that the movement represented him. And yet, the solo was not written for his Stradivarius. It had been a woodwind, a flute. An instrument he was physically incapable of playing.

An instrument his _son_ had been mastering at the time.

I closed up the sheet music on my stand as the others filed off the stage. Damrosch had told me he had aided Father in writing the piece while he was recovering from an accident on a work site. I had left for school shortly after. Father had been confined to bed rest with his ribs bound tightly. He’d pushed through and completed the rest of the symphony with Damrosch helping him by fetching movements for reference. Sometime later, after Father attended the concert where he furiously learned I had been secretly taking lessons on the flute, his temper burnt out of him, Father handed the new version of _Nightingale’s Sonata_ to Damrosch for the orchestra to learn. They had never seen the original … only Damrosch and, once he showed it to me … I had.

Adrift in a fog, I followed the rest of the orchestra to the evening celebration. The usual rounds of handshaking commenced, but little of it mattered. I stared at the carvings around me. His work. Ever around me, the shadow of his work. He could have left the solo for the concertmaster, as it had been written. He could have left it for himself. And yet, in secret he had recomposed the piece. Damrosch’s reply when I had asked lingered in my thoughts, _“because,” Erik had said, “the nightingale’s voice should be represented properly, not just written out of prideful zeal.”_

A shoulder bumped into mine. I blinked out of the stupor I had not realized I had drifted into, to find a vaguely familiar young man turning apologetically. “Pardon me, sir! I was just admiring the carv … Oh! It’s you, uhh, give me a moment. It will come to me. Mister, no, it wasn’t. It was Monsieur. Monsieur Charles Daae.”

The man held out a hand and smiled. I had seen him somewhere, but for the life of me I could only remember that much. “I apologize, but I am afraid I don’t recall your name.” I shook the hand, so as not be rude.

“Well, we weren’t formally introduced. No apology needed. We met where I work, Daugherty and Arkwright’s? Michael Perth, at your service.” He released my hand and offered a small bow.

I stiffened before I could catch the reaction. I covered it with a cough. “Sorry, my throat gets terribly dry after all that playing. If you would excuse me … ”

Perth walked beside me as I made my way to a table with wine set out. “Quite understandable. You are remarkable on the flute. I can see why they call you a virtuoso. Such a shame Mother never introduced me to music. I count that a terrible missed opportunity.”

I picked a glass of Riesling and took a long gulp. Beside me, Perth fiddled his fingers as he stared at them. I wondered how long Arkwright had berated at him after I had walked out. He seemed embarrassed enough. “Such skill does not manifest overnight. It demands dedication and time. My father encouraged every youth to pick up an instrument at some point, just to see if they possessed the spirit. For if they did, and it was not tapped, the soul could be tormented by the unused potential.”

Perth glanced up at the carvings. “Your father … Monsieur Erik?” As he finished his gaze slid down to me.

“Yes.” I swirled the wine and took a good sip. “I should say, my late father.”

He inhaled sharply and placed a hand on his chest. “My condolences. Oh dear. That explains why you were in the office. An inheritance of his estate, well … that would stagger even a seasoned accountant. Many fathers aren’t able to leave much for their sons. I daresay, mine hardly knew I existed.”

“I would give it all back in exchange for my father’s life.” My eyes stared vacantly at the signet ring I wore.

Perth rubbed his bare fingers. He blanched when he saw me looking and dashed his hands behind his back.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” I forced a smile. “Yes, I inherited this ring from my father, but he didn’t get it from his own. No. My father forged this through his own hard work. So, you see, if he could, there is always a chance you can … even if your father didn’t leave you much.” I gazed around at the hallowed hall and ran my hand over the stonework along the fine seam. “My father always said that even the grandest building starts with a single corner stone. The trick in life is seizing that opportunity to set the first one down.”

He nodded his head stiffly, eyes on the floor.

I finished the wine and set my glass on the table with a bow. “Now, if you will excuse me. I must depart.” Pulling my pocket watch out, I glimpsed the time and heaved a sigh. I had lingered too long at the party. I would be late arriving at Hell’s Kitchen.

Drifter, my Morgan gelding, was outside waiting for me in the dying daylight. I rode him into a gallop down the cobblestoned streets and along the avenues, watching as the city degraded with each block. At long last, I reined up next to the darkened tavern marked with only the flaked painting of a beer mug. I rapped on the door. A moment later it opened and Byrne snatched me through the door.

“Great fool. Standin’ out there lookin’ like a show pony in a glue factory pen! _Shite!_ Next time have sense enough to cover up that fancy suit. Come now, yer late.”

He hustled me into the windowless room with the plank table. It looked so different from this angle, as last time I had been on my back. Jin sat at the end of the table with his hands folded. His dark eyes narrowed as I walked in.

Byrne moved the lantern over on the table to clear a space as he remarked, “I already cuffed his ear, Jin, so we can just get down to business, shall we?” He held a hand out to me. “Alright, what’s this here you want to speak of?”

I pulled out a slip of paper and spread it out between us. From across the table, Jin continued to stare at me. A stare I could feel. My hand drifted off the paper. “What is it?”

“You.” Jin barely moved. “You are nothing like most honorable Erik. This weeping willow of a twig did not come from the roots of the mighty oak.”

How dare he! I slammed my hand on the table. “I am my father’s son!”

He made a rude noise and continued to stare. “He was unyielding, commanding with just his eyes. Your eyes tremble like a willow’s leaves in the wind. Your shadow is a pale comparison to standing in his.”

Byrne stabbed his knife in the table and glared at Jin. “Nough of that, stop being an arse. The boy wants this as bad as we do.”

Jin narrowed his eyes to two dark slits, like a cat about to strike. “Nonsense. He lacks the hunger. Besides, when did you become the boy’s wet-nurse?”

I stood up, but it was Byrne’s reaction that silenced Jin. He wrenched the knife from the table and threw it a hairsbreadth from slicing his ear off. The blade rang like a bell from where it remained shivering in the wooden wall. “Ain’t a wet-nurse! You know I kin a gut a man swift as you. Don’t need to drug ‘im neither! Monsieur Erik gave me orders to watch his son. And I don’t question those, just like I never questioned him!”

“Gentlemen!”

They both turned and stared at me like they had heard a ghost. Slowly Jin lowered his gaze. Byrne seized his knife from the wall and came back to the table as I cleared my throat.

“I have called you both here because in reading my father’s journals I have uncovered a number of men that it appears he crossed over the years. Perhaps we may find a link to the guilty party among the names.”

They skimmed the list, one after the other. Both with guarded expressions. Jin muttered, “Some of these men are dead. Goldridge, Ruescher, Easmore, Vahid, VanHollus.”

I pointed. “No. That man is not deceased.”

Jin chuckled. “I beg to differ. The man had vanished from society in 1885. Only a few men of repute even mention his horrendous behavior prior to attempting to poison most honorable Erik at his own mansion. VanHollus made a public farce of himself. He was carted to a hospital.”

“But he did not remain there.” I held up a finger. “All these years he has been confined in an asylum on Ward’s Island. I have seen the ruins of him.”

Silence filled the room as Jin stared at Byrne. A slow smile creased the Irishman’s face. “Aye, see? Told yah, there’s more to ‘im!”

“Did _you_ know that?”

Byrne shook his head. “Nope. Not a lick of it. Let alone set foot in one of those undesirable bins. Sheer me like a sheep, that takes a strong feller to walk in and out.”

I tapped the list. “It can’t be him anyway. He is a drooling wreck of a man. So that most promising lead, as he was the one who left the stone chips, is a dead one anyway. But that doesn’t mean some of these men might not have heard the tale and used it for confusion. Or perhaps a family member of one of the deceased? We need to be thinking about who would have wanted to do this and why. We still don’t have a clue.”

“We do,” interrupted Byrne, “what about that accounting place? Daugherty and Arkwright. Their note paid for it. So there is a connection. Looking at the list, Anglesey is still alive, he and your father had a terrible row over a piece of land. And this Mortelby. Erik and him met on the knoll ages ago. Erik’s sword parted his Achille’s tendon. He’s an old bitter man now. Both of them have used Daugherty and Arkwright.”

Jin’s smile resembled a scheming gargoyle. “That’s not the only place they each visit. Give me a week and I shall have spoken to them both.”

“Spoken.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Do not harm them without my command.”

Jin scoffed. “Why ever not?”

I glared at Byrne’s knife on the table. My thoughts drifted to the pistol waiting at home, hidden in the study. “Because. When we find the man behind this, I want to be the one to pull the trigger.”


	21. Chapter Twenty-one

_ **Chapter 21** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Christine~** _ _

Midwife Harpsly took Simonetta's hand and helped her up from the bed. By now the poor dear's belly looked like kneaded dough left to rise overlong. It was only mid-September which, fortunately for her, brought with it a break in the heat. A pleasant breeze blew through the open window stirring the curtains. 

“You are doing fine.” Harpsly's hand steadied her back as she tried to find her balance. “Some say, at this stage, it is best to lie abed. I find that to be a lump of tripe, dear. Activity, so long as there is strength for it, is the best.”

I crossed the room from the wardrobe with a modest light robe and helped my daughter-in-law put it on. “Just a short way out to the study. Further if you wish.”

Simonetta flinched, her hands gripped her belly. “I hardly slept last night for all the kicking. It's like the baby is constantly turning.”

“A good sign.” Harpsly palpated her firmly. “Yes. A strong child within, if impatient. We must be ready.”

“I … I don't think it's been long enough.” Her face paled as she turned to me. “Mother Daae … if it's too soon—”

“Hush.” I brushed her hair with my fingers. “Trust that everything will be alright. Harpsly is here to help. If she is not worried, you should not be.”

The midwife shook her head. “The baby's not coming yet. The signs are not right for that. But I suspect that when the time comes, the birth will be swift. This one will not tarry to arrive. Is the nursery prepared?”

I nodded. “Just down the hall. Charles's old room has been prepared.” My fingers still bore the callouses from all that lace-making and sewing, but the nursery was a dream draped in airy bliss. The bassinet had been commissioned by the finest craftsman I could find in the city. Sturdy, with plenty of room for soft bedding. Simonetta helped as much as she was able, but I had taken the lead on most of it with her consent. Everything lately revolved around the upcoming birth. Too much sorrow. It was time for a blessing and nothing would be more perfect than a child. Fondly, I remembered what Charles's birth had been for me.

We slowly shuffled her out into the study, one on each side. Charles glanced up from the ledger and capped the ink. Good, he had been finishing what we started last night instead of putting his nose back in those dreadful journals. He stood and hurried to Simonetta. “Are you well? You look pale. Can I get you something?”

She smiled and blush bloomed on her cheeks. 

Harpsly firmly pushed him aside. “She is fine, Monsieur Daae. Please stand aside and let us proceed with her exercise.”

I chuckled as a flustered Charles scrambled out of the way. “Mother, why is she pale?”

“Relax, dear.” My hand grasped his briefly as we passed. “She just got out of bed. The little one was restless last night. That's all. I was pale when you had fussed the night away.”

Gently, we eased her down on the couch where she leaned back with a sigh. “My back aches. My ankles are swollen. There is scarcely room enough in me for more than a few bites of food. Oh, I am not sure who is more anxious for this to be over with. Me or the little one!”

As Harpsly walked out of the room on her mission to instruct the kitchen on Simonetta's next meal, I turned to grab another pillow from the other couch to help. When I turned back, I found Charles sitting on the floor with her feet in his lap, his fingers gently kneading them. She smiled wearily at him. “Thank you.”

“Anything I can do, you tell me.”

Charles gazed up at her and I choked. His eyes bore the same helpless guilt I had seen in Erik's. Even when he had not truly wronged me, Erik's apologetic expression tugged at the heart. I longed once more to be lost in his gaze. But not now. I needed to be here. Here, with poor Charles. There was so little that could be done. Simonetta handled things so well, she was a saint. She'd asked little of him. We both found a relief in the fact that his obsession seemed to be slipping in the face of the upcoming birth. Come back to the life, Charles. We all miss Erik. But, even I had faced it, nothing we could do would bring him back.

I sniffed back a tear and came up behind Simonetta, propping a pillow behind her. “There we are. Now, when Harpsly returns, we should ask about who she recommends for a nursemaid.”

The clatter of a tray announced Marie arriving with the tea. “Oh, Madame. I would love to serve in that fashion. If I may. I love babies! Oh please.”

Everyone of us, even Charles, turned and blinked up at the now flushed maid. 

The china shivered on the tray as she stood there, frozen in our stares. She set the tray on the table with a curtsy and lowered her gaze. “Pardon me for the suggestion. I have … overstepped.”

I swept around the couch and grasped her wrist as she tried to retreat from the room. “It's not that, Marie. Please, don't run off now. It's simply that you do so much for us already. You have been a loyal servant and I will never forget how kind you were to me when I first came here. You are part of the reason this household runs as smoothly as it does. We could not possibly ask more of you.”

She stared obediently at the floor, only a nod of her head in reply.

“I promise you, when the baby arrives, we will find some ways you can help. But we need to hire someone with experience whom Harpsly recommends for this role.”

Marie twisted her fingers in her apron. “I have raised three children, Madame.”

“Three?” Charles stood and came over. “Where do you live?”

She pointed to the western wing. “On the third floor, with the other servants and their families.” 

Charles rubbed his chin. “I swear I never remember seeing any other children here.”

“We know our place, Monsieur. We keep to it as we have been well provided for through your father.” She curtsied again and left the study.

Walking back to the couch, I sat beside Simonetta and prepared her a nice cup of tea. Charles sat down on the other couch, silent for a long pause. “All this time … families, on the other side of the manor. It never occurred to me.”

“Where else would they have lived?” I handed the cup to Simonetta. “Careful dear, it's hot.”

He shrugged. “You have a point. Father did give them lodgings, so it makes sense.”

The mantle clock chimed. 

Charles strode over and kissed Simonetta. “I'll be back. I just have a rehearsal. A few hours, nothing more. Can I get you anything?”

She smiled and brushed his cheek. “I'm fine. Stop fussing over me.”

He traced the line of her belly and grinned. “Can I fuss over Alexander or Viola?”

I sat up. “Oh? So you've picked names?”

They both nodded. She turned to Charles and pushed him gently. “You'll be late. Go. Mother Daae and my midwife will take of me.”

He bowed, took his flute and bounded down the steps. 

I laid my hand on her belly. The baby knocked against my palm. “Soon now, little one. Whether you are an Alexander or a Viola, we will see you soon. Patience.”

* * * * *

_ **~Charles~** _

“Alright everyone, that was a wonderful rehearsal.” Damrosch set his baton on the stand. “I'll see you all on Thursday evening for the concert.” 

The symphony dissolved into a chorus of chatter. I took my time organizing my sheet music before rising from my chair. Damrosch stood in front of me with his arms crossed, a grin on his face. “Well?”

I blinked, “Well, what?”

“My wife came back from visiting yours the other day. From the looks of things, should be any minute 

now.”

“Not yet. The midwife says it will be bit longer.” I discovered my fingers were flicking the edge of the music. It took concentration to stop the tick.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “If it's near the concert, I understand you missing it. There are some things more important. The birth of a child is one of them.”

Heat rose to my face. “Thank you, for everything Damrosch. Especially … for listening over these months. It's been … difficult.”

His smile faded. Narrowing his eyes he forced me to meet his gaze. “What's wrong?”

Secretly, my hand touched the slip of paper in my pocket. The news I had received on my way to the hall. I hung my head. “Every lead I had … they're all dead ends. With nothing more to follow, it's over. There is no hope of avenging Father's murder now. I have failed him.”

“Charles.” He sighed, “You tried everything you possibly could. I doubt he would call it a failure. It has been nearly four months now of frantic searching. Let it go. You have your family to consider.”

I nodded, but it still felt wrong. Byrne's last words on the note still plagued me,  What now?  I had no idea. Only in light of this forced pause did I even begin to realize that I have never had an idea. A loose plan of revenge on the man who ordered my father shot. Nothing more solid than that. 

A voice called out for Damrosch. He squeezed my shoulder. “I will see you Thursday, unless there is a good reason for you to be elsewhere.” He winked and dashed off the stage leaving me alone in the half-light of the auditorium.

I stared out at the sea of red velvet seats. “I know I should let it go … I am sorry.”

“How much further would you have gone?” Father stood beside me, the white mask illuminated in the dim lights. 

“To help your soul find rest? Anything.”

Slowly he paced the length of the stage. “There is a point where dedication to a single cause becomes equivalent with utter lunacy.”

That word struck me a blow. Father loathed any word associated with insanity. I had discovered the depth of that hatred when, as a teenager, I had tormented him with them. His eyes gazed out calmly at the auditorium before turning to me.

“Cast your thoughts back to Vahid, Maitham, and Bijan. Think back to the lengths those men clung to over decades to exact their vengeance. How they stole your mother and you away to the Dead House at the cemetery in mid-winter just to hurt me.” He held his hands out wide. “Decades, Charles. Decades spent in search of the man who was ordered to execute their fathers.”

“But … you didn't really … did you?”

He nodded, the shame in his eyes pulling them to the floor. “To say they were wrong in seeking justice would be a lie. But, in the lengths they went to, they threw their entire lives away.” Drifting back to me, he rested a hand on my shoulder and met my eyes. “Do not make their mistake. When the chase goes cold as the grave, let it lie, my son. I would never ask you to sacrifice your life for revenge. You are too young. You mean too much to Simonetta.”

I stared into that mask, the leaden weight of his eyes boring into me. I shuddered. “But I can't … ”

“The prey has fled, the trail gone cold. It is time to move on.” 

Like a marionette, I nodded. With my music in hand, I savored the beautiful serenity of the hall. “This was your true legacy, Father. Now, perhaps it is time to find my own.”

I drifted out into the afternoon sunlight and walked back to the mansion with my thoughts wandering. By my age, father had already traveled much of Eurasia and nearly ruled Persia, if the stories he and Nadir had told could be believed. I was less inclined to doubt them after reading the journals. 

Perhaps he was right after all. Perhaps it was time to put the journals back. Time to look ahead instead of searching the past for a man I would never find. I didn't want my legacy to drive me to madness. Simonetta needed me. And I needed to be here with her. There was nothing to gain from finding this man. Mother was right, it would not bring Father back.

The future lay ahead of us. I climbed the steps of the manor and my heart slammed in my throat.

A marble chip lay right in front of the door. The same door I had left by, and that chip had  **not** been there when I left. I picked the curious piece up and examined it. The same marble, from the same quarry. But why was it here? What did it mean?

Oh God, no!

I wrenched open the door and tore up the stairs into the deserted study. “Simonetta! Simonetta! Mother!” 

No one answered me. I dashed to the bedchamber door with my imagination painting vile pictures in my head. If anything had happened …

The door opened before I could grasp the knob. Harpsly's beady eyes glared out at me through her wrinkles. Behind her, I glimpsed my mother drawing the curtains closed. “Hush up, young man! Have respect for your resting wife.”

“I uhh … she's alright … ?”

“Of course she is. Just weary. Now, kindly keep the noise down so she can repose. Away with you.” And with that, she shut the door on me.

She shut the door on me. The door to my own bedchamber. That thought jabbed at me, but it barely registered any annoyance. The stone chip weighed heavily in the palm of my hand. What did it mean? The last stone chip had been left with Father's body. 

I stared at the closed door. The possibilities drove me from the house down to the stables. Hastily I saddled Drifter. No sooner had I finished than I set his head to the southeast to Hell's Kitchen. 

I had to find Bryne. 

We had no choice now … we must find whoever was behind this and pull the trigger. Before they pulled it on another loved one!


	22. Chapter Twenty-two

__ **Chapter 22** _ _

__ **** _ _

__**~Charles~** _ _

 

I rushed home from Carnegie Hall with the weight of the hidden pistol pressing against my hip. My eyes watched every shadow passing by, in search of some threat. In the chill evening air, sweat clung to my brow. I checked the door lock three times as I called to the butler, “How is Simonetta?”

 

He pointed upstairs. “She retired early this evening after a light dinner.”

 

One relief. “My mother?”

 

“Taking a bath.”

 

Good, that was another. They were accounted for. “You have done as I requested?”

 

The butler nodded and pulled back his coat to reveal a gun. “Several of the other servants are armed, Monsieur, and regularly wandering the manor as part of their duty. Jacques, armed with his farrier's hammer, has taken it upon himself to ride the perimeter every other hour on the excuse of exercising the horses.”

 

Crafty Jacques, if anyone were about he would notice. The man was strong enough to put up with Faust's tempers, none would get past him.

 

Yet I still found my heart racing, my eyes searching the hall in case. “Did the man arrive?”

 

Once more he pointed to upstairs. “A Mister Du'pavre presented the card you told me to accept. Informed me he was sent by a mutual friend to ensure the safety of the Madame and child. He has seated himself outside the bedchamber, Monsieur.”

 

Byrne's promise had come to pass then. He'd suggested having someone guard the door on a permanent post. I allowed myself a long exhale at the news.

 

“Will there be anything else, Monsieur Daae?”

 

I shook my head and walked up the stairs. “No, thank you. Just keep a weathered eye.”

 

“Of course.” His footsteps carried into the lower halls where all the windows and doors had been latched tight.

 

In the study I found Du'Pavre sitting in the padded chair right outside the door. The moment I stepped in the room he was on his feet, his hand hovering over his gun. His hard eyes appraised me. I held out my empty hands. In a blink of an eye he relaxed and bobbed his head. “Monsieur Daae, I presume.”

 

“Yes.”

 

He straightened the front of his wool jacket and offered me a quick grin. “Du'Pavre at your service. You looked exactly as he described. Cormac Byrne told me you needed eyes to keep your wife and,” he chuckled, “as Cormac puts it, wee bairn, safe. Consider it done.”

 

The man was steely. Trim and capable. He wore a nice suit fancy enough to appear to be staff. But the powder marks burnt into his hand and butt of the gun peeking out from beneath his vest told a different tale. This man sat with a presence devoid of fear. Something I wish I could feel.

 

“How do you know Byrne?” I pulled out my pistol and set it on the desk.

 

Du'Pavre's eyes followed the motion. One brow raised at the sight, but he did not remark. Instead he replied smoothly, “Byrne and I have crossed paths a number of times. Often when he was acting as your father's street cur. I mean no insult by that, Byrne likens himself to a lurcher chasing down rabbits in the warren of the city. He believes the analogy to be something clever. I prefer to let my prey come to me. We are two parts of a common industry. One, as I comprehend, your father employed well.”

 

I glanced at the journals on the desk. “So it seems, as I have been learning.”

 

Du'Pavre eyed the gun. “Do you know how to shoot that?”

 

“Of course.” I stiffened. “Father wasn't fond of guns, but he owned several. He considered it important to instruct me in the art of defense.” I could hit a target, not with any serious accuracy. But the human body is a large object. In a pinch at least I knew how to aim and fire.

 

He grinned at me. “Sure enough your father preferred other weapons. Any man who saw him duel up on the knoll could see that. It's a wonder that, after a handful of challenges, any man was fool enough to throw his gauntlet down.”

 

“You saw him duel?”

 

Du'Pavre nodded once. “Byrne told me to come. That it would be worth it. Blade duels were rare, and there had been several months passing to allow the challenger to learn how to handle the blade. You father stepped onto the knoll and the challenger flashed as white as the mask Monsieur Erik wore the moment that left hand drew the blade with a comfortable flourish. There was a cold passion in those eyes. I remember watching the calm presence with great envy. The duel lasted no more than three strokes, two of which were your father's. None cared to recall the name of the corpse on the knoll. They only hungered to see more of that graceful blade. But Monsieur Erik sheathed it and walked away. That was the day I knew I never wanted to cross him. Most sane men would never dare for the cost. A grudge is not worth a life. And as I hear it, your father always did his damnedest to talk the fools out of toeing the line. Some were wise enough to listen. Others … well … they didn't live to regret their folly.”

 

He spoke the truth, I had discovered many examples in the journals. Foolish men who died for their honor in an illegal act. Father never once challenged another man to a formal duel. He merely finished what others had chosen to throw themselves into for the sake of pride. In the end … he was gone and our lives were in danger.

 

“If you will excuse me, I want to check the whole house before retiring.” Nothing could be left to chance, I took the gun back off the desk.

 

“Of course, Monsieur Daae. I'll be here.”

 

* * * * *

_**~Charles~** _

 

Weeks passed. Central Park draped her leaves in glorious hues. I paced the halls of the manor with the gun in my hand, sometimes chasing shadows out into the damp night air. One shadow turned out to be nothing more than a curtain shifting in the wind. Another an owl perched on the ledge outside. Du'Pavre continued to guard Simonetta's door when I was not with her.

 

Into the reaches of mid-October I crept with caution, rarely leaving the mansion for fear of returning home to find the threat manifested. One long paranoid stupor that lasted unbroken, until a servant practically fell down the stairs as I ate a secluded breakfast in the dining hall. I looked up in alarm to see Marie beaming.

 

“It's the Madame! It's time!”

 

I dropped my spoon into the bowl and shot up the stairs two at a time. Halfway up the stairs, I could hear the voices carrying into the study. Simonetta's panting breaths punched through the gap of the door. Du'Pavre waited by the study door, when I burst by him he bowed his head and left the room without remark.

 

I almost vaulted over the couch to get to the bedchamber door. I made it as far as my hand touching the wood. The midwife scowled at me through the gap. “No husbands! Wait out here.”

 

The door clicked shut.

 

What? I placed my palms on the door. But I … my wife … I wanted to be in there. Shouldn't I be in there? Through the door all I could hear was muffled instructions and the panting breaths of Simonetta.

 

I lingered by the door until my sweaty palms threatened to warp the wood. Pacing the length of the study, I tried not to ponder all that things I had heard could go wrong. But they were all that lingered in my mind. I turned to dash back to the door when Marie arrived with a teapot and a single cup. “For you, Monsieur. I was instructed by your mother to brew this when the time came. It will help you.”

 

My hands shook violently as I poured. I blew on the tea and almost splattered it across the room. Marie glanced at the door, listening.

 

“Can you … maybe they will let you in?” I suggested.

 

She smiled. “Everything sounds fine in there. Relax, sir.”

 

A shrill cry rent the air. I shot to my feet, only Marie kept me from dashing to the door.

 

“That will happen, Monsieur Daae. Even when things go right.”

 

I swore my panting matched Simonetta's as the maid guided me back to the couch. She left after a few more minutes passed. I sat alone in the room listening to the groans and cries carrying out hour after hour. What was happening? All I wanted to hear was a baby cry. Than I would know everything was all right.

 

But the cries I heard were from no infant. They were the pained screams of my wife in labor. And they grew alarmingly long and frequent.

 

I dashed to the door and pounded on it. “Let me in! Is she all right? Is she all right!”

 

After what seemed like a few minutes of my fit, the door opened and my mother darted out and pushed me back, seizing my hands by the wrist. The door closed behind her. “You great oaf! Stop that immediately! She has enough to deal with right now without you acting like a demented woodpecker.”

 

“Is she alright?”

 

“Of course she is.” Mother snapped.

 

“But, she's screaming!”

 

“You would be too.” She smirked. “Birthing a baby is a lot harder than conceiving one. Harpsly is watching her closely, and it should be very soon now. You have to be patient. Simonetta is strong. Trust that she will be all right.”

 

I tried to speak but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

 

“Go on now, I'll come back out when I can.” She reentered the room.

 

I slid down the wall outside the door and listened to the chaos within. Time became nothing but a tortured blur. I winced with her every scream.

 

The words became louder. Mother calling out, “You can do this.”

 

Harpsly's stern bark, “I can see the head. Get ready now, a nice strong push.”

 

Be strong, Simonetta. I willed to her.

 

A long guttural cry stretched longer than the others. My hands tightened into fists. Silence followed. The smack of a flat hand against human flesh. And then … a wail filled the air.

 

I sat up. Our child … our first child!

 

The door didn't open. I remained on the floor staring at it, listening to the trembling cry of our newborn. A boy or a girl? Alexander or Viola? I wanted to know. More than anything … but something else caught my ear. Simonetta continued to pant.

 

Mother opened the door and slipped out. A bit of blood on her hands. She smiled and knelt down beside me. “Don't stand up. Trust me. Stay on the floor.”

 

“Alexander or Viola?” I gasped. It didn't really matter to me. It was our first child.

 

“Viola.”

 

I embraced her, but she rapidly broke the hug and pushed me back. “What … what is it?”

 

“Her labor isn't over. There's another.”

 

My world swirled beneath me. Another?

 

Mother beamed. “No wonder she carried so heavy. There were two. I have to go back in and help. The nursemaid is tending to Viola now. She is a healthy baby, and the midwife says she'll be a singer. Did you hear her greet the world? Precious.”

 

She slipped back into the room and I leaned against the wall feeling like someone had pulled the room out from under me. Slowly I staggered over to the teapot and found that Marie had blessedly refreshed it a short time ago. I poured myself a fresh cup and drank it down without tasting it. Two. Not one child, but two. No wonder they had been so restless.

 

I drifted through the study staring at everything and nothing as time ticked away on the mantle clock. Outside the light was beginning to fade into early evening. A glorious pattern of colors painted on the sky. The first star winked into the night. Followed by a second, and a third.

 

A trembling wail cut through the door, different from the first. I held my breath and listened as another, more familiar joined in. Yes … two.

 

My knees gave out and I slid down the wall, tears drowning out the triple stars in the sky. A short time passed before the door opened and Mother waved me in. “Keep you voice down. Simonetta is exhausted.”

 

I could not cross the study fast enough. Inside the bedchamber, Simonetta lay wearily against the pillows. Sweaty tendrils of her hair clung to her forehead and neck. But she looked up at me and smiled. “Look … look what we made?” In her arms a newborn lay swaddled in a blanket. Tiny pink lips locked in nursing.

 

My heart melted.

 

“This is our first born, Viola.” She brushed the dark brown wisps of hair on our daughters head.

 

A shadow came up beside me. I turned to find the nursemaid carrying another bundle in her arms. The bundle cooed and pushed against the blanket.

 

Mother caressed the exposed cheek. “And your second born, Alexander.”

 

A son? His skin was so soft and warm. Plump and bright pink like his sister's. I brushed his delicate wisps of dark brown hair. So small. He yawned and nestled into the blanket.

 

“They're perfect.” I reached out and the nursemaid placed Alexander in my arms at Mother's bidding. He was a petite human whose weight I scarcely felt. I gazed down at my nursing daughter and marveled. “How were they both in there this whole time? It must be magic.”

 

Simonetta laughed wearily. “We're going to need another nursemaid.”

 

Harpsly didn't even give me a chance to speak. “And, you my dear will be convalescing for a while. No getting out of bed without help.”

 

“Bed … ” It dawned on me. “We only have one bassinet!”

 

“Charles, that is easy to fix. Tomorrow, though. For tonight I doubt these two will want to be apart much.”

 

In my arms Alexander murmured away. Viola finished nursing and turned her head and cooed toward her brother. He answered with a short cry.

 

Mother took him from me and laid him in Viola's place as the nursemaid took her up and gently patted her back until she popped a little burp. Alexander latched on immediately. “Someone is hungry.” Simonetta grinned.

 

Two healthy babies. Not just one. But two. Even seeing them made it hard to believe. I closed my eyes and smiled.

 

We were parents. I … was a father.

 


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

_ **Chapter 23** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Christine~** _ _

The scent of the red rose filled the third story corridor. This morning I had found the late autumn bloom with a bow tied around its stem in the vase on my nightstand. For some time now, the vase had been empty, the wilted roses at last cleared away in my absence. I could not help but cherish the arrival of the significant bloom. Carefully I carried it to the secluded door and slipped inside.

A mantle of dust from the months of neglect covered the objects in the room. I ran my finger along the edge of the marble topped table. The silk tasseled runner released a cloud into the air. On the back wall a mirror stretched from floor to ceiling. Only Erik would have taken the pains to duplicate this place. 

It was as though someone had taken my dressing room from the Paris Opera and transplanted it here. In truth, he nearly had. It was everything I remembered.

I laid the rose on the dressing counter and opened my diary. So many months had passed since the last entry. He’d … he’d still been alive. I didn’t even know where to begin. 

The shift of a shadow in the mirror caught my attention. Through the pane of glass he smiled at me. His palm pressed against it. The great black wings framed his body in the tunnel beyond the glass. 

“My Angel of Music.” I reached out to him.

Through the surface of the mirror he emerged as if rising out of a vertical pool of dark water. The wings enfolded me as I fell into his embrace. Erik was here.

“You came.” I nestled into his arms craving their warmth.

“I told you I always would.”

“But, you haven’t been … ”

He chuckled as I leaned back to look up. “You have not needed me as much. Your  life  has filled your days, as it should. And that spills into your nights to fill your dreams. Such wondrous dreams, my love.”

I danced as he spun me around, my black skirts twirling like a parasol. “Days ago, Simonetta gave birth. Oh Erik, we’re grandparents of twins. Viola and Alexander.”

“I know.” He plucked the rose from the table and handed it back to me. “They greeted the world with a song. Both are destined for the stage. Music is in their souls.”

I caressed the petals of the rose. “But … they will never know you.”

“Nonsense.” His wing brushed against my shoulder. “Am I not the Angel the Music? Whom do you believe sings them to sleep in their bassinets? I shall appear for them when the time is right. Until that day they are not alone. They have two excellent guides.”

My hand trembled as he traced my chin. “Charles and … you. Let them blossom in their time. Let them find their way to their destinies, my dear. This family will continue to grow, even in my stead.”

I grasped his lapels and pulled him closer. “I want you to be a part of it.”

“I am. As long as you keep my memory alive, I will always be a part of this.” He smiled and coiled my hair around his finger. “You know what I always admired about you?”

No words came to me. I stared, lost in his bright blue gaze.

“Your strength. You were the firmest foundation in my life … I never told you that. I never admitted it to myself. But it was you who made me what I wanted to be.” He knelt before me, his wings spreading out across the floor. “A human being.”

I stood transfixed as he rose before me.

“You are the matriarch of our family now, Christine.”

My fingers caressed his smooth cheek. “This is your legacy.”

“I leave it in your hands, my love.”

For a long time I stared at the trembling rose in my hand. When I looked up, I was alone. The mirror held no passage to another world … to his world. A place of haunted dreams. My gaze shifted to the shaft of light under the closed door. The world outside waited for me. 

_ * * * * * _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

In the bed beside Simonetta, I lay on my stomach atop the covers. Father’s tattered copy of the old Persian tales leaned against my pillow as I read aloud the translation of the text he had written in the margins. I wish I had spent more time learning all the languages he had, at least a grasp of them. At least, in this case, he had translated for Mother, even though she’d pester him until he read it aloud to her by the hearth. The story my parents cherished, the nightingale and the forbidden rose.

When I reached the final passage, Simonetta sniffed back a tear. “The poor dears. The both of them. That the bird should work so hard only to die for a glimpse of his love. And the rose who had dared to brave the world is left alone in it. So terribly sad. I don’t understand why your parents loved this so?”

I took her hand. Her grasp was still weary. She’d been abed the last few days since the twins had been born, her strength gradually returning. Harpsly seemed to be content with her progress. I had to trust that she knew what she was doing. For Simonetta to need rest did seem logical, she had made two lives! Two beautiful lives that I longed for the day I could show the world to. For now, they did little more than sleep and eat with little fussing. The nursemaids called them dream children.

“Mother and Father had their own reasons for loving the story. But I suspect that it didn’t end the same for them.” I grinned. “Father’s nightingale was a clever bird who cheated death and when my mother’s rose gazed on him again, that time the love was rendered true. They triumphed over the curse that tarnished their love in time.”

She giggled. “You speak as if they truly are the symbols in the story.”

“I believe, in their eyes, they would say they were. At least as far as Father had known those years in isolation here before the opening of the Hall. I know through his own words how he had accepted that his deception had poisoned the bond between them. He had left believing there was never a chance to rectify his mistake. Just like the nightingale in the story, his song enthralled and influenced choice … in the end it stripped her of it. He realized far too late that love not freely given was not love at all.”

“He must have been very lonely down there in the cellars of the Opera.”

I remembered his words. They felt bitter as I recited them for her, _“_ _ Reviled by the world, I accepted at last there was no place for me among humanity. If they would not accept me as a man, I would cease to exist as one. Let them listen in the darkness, let them live in fear. I no longer had anything to lose. _ _”_

She rubbed my hand. “Paris was robbed of the chance of experiencing his genius. At least we saw it here. What would he have been like if the world had not scorned him so?”

I shrugged. “He pondered that question often. Even here. I think he began to realize how much his bitterness had crippled him. And yet, I understand why he guarded himself. I used to think he was paranoid.” My head fell into my hands. “If I had known.”

“Oh Charles, you didn’t know. He told you so little.”

“I knew none of it until I read his journals.”

“Maybe it’s time to put them back, dear.” She massaged my shoulder. “Put this all to rest.”

Reluctantly, I nodded. Despite periodic perimeter checks, there had been no verified signs of anything wrong aside from the that one stone shard on the doorstep. How long could I keep up this jumping at shadows? “You’re right. In fact, I’m going to go start right now.”

I pushed up to sit on the bed and kissed her. “You get some rest.”

I shut the door behind me and grabbed a stack of the journals. It was a long walk up the third floor laboratory. The whole way the pistol tapped my leg. I felt like such a fool carrying the damn thing all the time. 

Inside the laboratory, I lit the gas-lamps and started to file the journals back in the cabinet. A feeling nagged me that I should have put them in order first. Well, maybe later. For now, if I was going to let this go I needed to get them out of my sight. I slipped the last of this armful on the shelf, when the crash of shattered glass broke the silence.

I lept to my feet. A pane of glass had broken inward. A small object lay on the floor surrounded by the shards. From here I couldn’t tell what it was, the tables blocked any clear view. Perhaps a bird had flown into the window. They were known to do that. Yes, surely that must be all it was. A wayward bird.

My hand hovered over the pistol. What a nonsense idea that was. This was the third story! 

I knelt down to find not a bird, but the body of a dead rat with blood trickling out his open mouth. A piece of twine tethered a packet to his back. I grabbed a couple pairs of tweezers and freed the object from the ghastly little thing. I found a scrap of paper wrapped around another chunk of my father’s marble. The writing on the paper was a messy jumble of letters infected with some tremoring.

_ To Monsieur Charles Daae, _

_ Or should I say, to the son of a rat! Too long your father evaded his fate. But no one can run forever. He couldn’t. And nor can you! I will be waiting for you at your father’s foundation. If you fail to come, the next chips I take from you won’t be stone. _

There was no signature. 

My heart rammed against my chest. Oh God, Simonetta! The twins! Mother! 

I stared at the words on the paper. Father’s foundation? What did that mean? Clearly it wasn’t the mansion. Perhaps Carnegie Hall? But he had built that later. And while he’d remained at the Hall, it wasn’t the heart of what he’d called his empire. A crown jewel maybe, but not a foundation.

Father’s foundation. His first project had been a conservatory for Reed. But the two of them had remained business partners. No. It wasn’t that. The breakthrough had been the bank he had constructed as part of a bet. When Father’s building had won, that begin the torrent of projects rolling in. Father had still been in the Bowery at that time, working his fingers to the bone, literally, to get out of there. It couldn’t be the bank, he didn’t own that. Nor the tenement, he had abandoned that place with good reason. 

Foundation … I closed my eyes and tried to think of the fine details of those early days. The marble chip weighed heavy in my hand. The chip … the quarry! Father had berated Nadir for even suggesting he sell it as it was the foundation that would build his empire!

The quarry by the stone cutter’s hamlet was on the north end of the island. Father had taken me there a few times. I still remembered the way. Throwing the rat’s body out the broken window, I dashed down and rapped on Dupavre’s door. When he opened, I pulled him out.

“Guard my family!”

“Is something wrong, Monsieur?” He blinked, his hand grasped his own gun. 

If I was wrong about this, it could be a trap to get me to leave them at risk. I flashed the paper in front of his eyes. “God willing, I am about to end this.”

Without another word, I headed for the stables. My blood ran cold within my veins, the promise of vengeance. 


	24. Chapter Twenty-four

_ **Chapter 24** _

_ **** _

_ _**~Charles~** _ _

I rode Drifter hard to the north to reach the oldest of my father's quarries about mid-day. This late in the season, it was deserted. All the workmen would be frantically at work sites trying to beat the inevitable tick of the clock. When the weather turned to winter, most of the crews halted work. Today, even the stone cutters hamlet was quiet. True, the children would be at school and many of the wives rode into the city with their husbands for either work or errands. None of this helped to sooth my nerves as I passed by the stone house Father had built here to escape the Bowery. For decades Grimaudo had used it as the quarry office. 

I tied Drifter outside the office and peered in the first floor windows. Inside the rustic décor was nicely maintained. Everything tidy, the wood floor had a fresh dusting of sand to keep the boards splinter free. I tried the door and it was locked tight. The foreman likely on a site, the house was empty. And I was thankful for that. I did not wish to bloody what Father built. 

Entering into the quarry I keep my eyes peeled for any movement. Only the drifting of crisp autumn leaves disturbed the wide jagged stone gully. Limestone shelves stretched on either side. Marble deposits, with large pieces cut away, interrupted them. I climbed onto a shelf and ran my fingers along the contours of a marble carving. Apollo and his muses. Father's work. What I would have given to have stood here and watched him carve it the day he had purchased the quarry. Of course, that would have been impossible. 

Even after all these years, the marble preserved the fine details of his work. A tear stung my eye. Never again would he work stone as a gift to the world. Who ever this thief was, he had not only stolen stone chips from this quarry, but the cherished life of a true artist. All of the things Father might have shared with Viola and Alexander had been stripped away in a single pull of the trigger. My hand checked the gun at my hip. I knew it was loaded. I wanted nothing more than to hear the crack of the bullet against the skull bones of whoever was behind this. 

Where were they? The only other thing with a heartbeat under this sun was a killdeer wheeling overhead. His peeping cries caught my attention before he dove off to the north. That's right, there was a river pass that way. A great place for shorebirds to congregate. 

I had to be smart about this. Think like someone trying to ambush. There was no cover on the edges of the quarry. Just bare rock shelves cut back into a wide bowl. From here, I could see everything, even up onto the top edges. 

After a long walk around the full circumference of the quarry, I found nothing but disappointment. My blood boiled in my veins. Had I come here for any true reason? Was it a ruse to get me out of the way? Had some cad decided to pull a heartless prank? This had to be the place—Father's foundation. This was the first quarry, the one where his stone workers were first paid in land. I spun in a circle at the entrance and kicked a stone into the gate.

“So close again, and nothing!” I snarled.

My pulse thundered in my ears. A dark figure shifted beside me. My hand drew the gun and aimed smack in the center of the chest. My finger shivered against the trigger. 

Father. He stood before me now with his hands held wide and open. His eyes stared at me lined with worry through the holes of his mask. “Charles, put the gun away.”

I forced the tip to point at the ground. Each breath I heaved as though I, and not Drifter, had run all the way to the quarry. “Why did you sneak up on me?”

“What if I had been Grimaudo?” He approached me slowly. “What if you had fired?”

“No. I would never have.” I shook my head. “I know him.”

“Do you? You leveled the muzzle at me and held it there overlong. Are you so sure?”

My fingers pressed against the wood grip of the gun. The weight in my hand reassured me. “Yes.” I had to swallow before I could finish. “I know what I am doing!”

“And what is that?” He folded his arms across his chest. The edges of his cloak trailed out on either side of him. 

“Ending this!”

“Ending what?”

I stuttered, my hand lifting the gun between us, muzzle to the sky. “This … avenging you … putting your spirit at rest.”

His eyes drifted to the ground. “Then you do not know what you do, Charles. Not in any capacity.”

Confound it! I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears. Coiled like a spring, everything in me wanted to lash out. “You have no right to tell me what to do! You're dead! The man behind it has to pay!”

“By your hand?” 

I opened my eyes to discover he pressed closer to me. I backed away, hunched over, my grasp tight on the pistol. I could not let him stop me. I had to do this. Must do this.

“Charles, please. You must think this through. You have no idea what you are committing.”

I clenched my teeth. “It's not murder to kill a murderer!”

He paused, his gaze lowered to the gun in my hand. “Then … by your words … you have nothing to avenge.”

“How can you say that?” I screamed. “You were murdered! You were shot in the back by a coward who dared not face you. A coward hired by a thief who plays games in the shadows. That thief stole you from the lives of those who love you. Mother! Simonetta and the twins! … Me! This thief must pay.” I flailed the gun in the air.

His hand caught my wrist in an iron grip. Burdened eyes stared into mine until I shuddered under their guilty weight. “Where would it stop? If you make this man pay, where will it stop? He has a family. A father, perhaps a child. After the chain lashes back at you, your life ends in a justified revenge. Then Alexander and Viola are left without a father. Left to avenge your death, and so on.”

“No. I won't let it come to that.” I tried to look away. He gripped my chin with his other hand and forced me to meet his eyes. The glare pierced me.

“That is not how this works! Once you pull the trigger, the whole world changes for you. You have read what I have written. How could you have possibly failed to comprehend?” His eyes narrowed, tears trembling in the corners. “Charles, my gentle son, do not take this weight on your heart! Everything changes after you have taken a life. There is no going back. You are not meant to bear this burden. It would destroy you.”

“I am strong enough!” I tried to wrench free. He only moved with me in a staggered step, maintaining the grip on my wrist. 

“No you are not! That is not an insult. Please, Charles. You _must_ listen to me. This is not a path you want to choose. The chase never ends. Just a succession of blood and death.” He gripped my shoulder and squeezed hard enough that I cried out. “Once that beast is awakened in you, he never ceases to whisper!”

I closed my eyes to shut out his stare. Those mismatched eyes wavered my resolve. I twisted in his grasp, trying to break free. Only when I couldn't see him, did I find the strength to fight. “No! I must end this!”

“Damn it, Boy! Listen to me! This ends nothing! It will only destroy you if you pull the trigger!”

I wrenched my shoulder free and blindly threw a hard punch at him.

His grip released, accompanied by a stunned cry. 

I fell backwards, opening my eyes as I struck the ground. 

Father huddled beneath his cloak. His mask lay on the ground between us. 

There was no conceivable way I had struck hard enough to hurt him … physically. I took a series of deep breaths, waiting for him to move. But he remained shrouded in the refuge of his cloak. I was not prepared for the hollow pain in his voice.

“Once the beast has his claws in you, there is nowhere you can hide. It is impossible to run from yourself, Son. No matter what you try to do, you can never face yourself again the same way. The guilt weighs heavy on the heart, the chains shackle you over the years. The burden of those sins never abates.” His trembling hand lifted the edge of his cloak. Father's malformed face grimaced from the shadows. 

Still on the ground, I scrambled away from the haunted stare in his eyes. That was not the man I had known gazing at me. It was a monster! A savage creature wreathed in the dark cloak rose to loom over me. His hands reaching out like claws. 

His voice turned my blood to ice. “You are far too weak to take the strain! Far too frail to withstand the aftermath! You will crumble when the world comes for you! You will die as a mewling whelp!”

I couldn't catch my breath as I dragged myself up the quarry wall. He continued to advance, a shade of his formal self. He threw his head back. Vile laughter echoed against the stones. 

All I could do was clutch the gun in my trembling hand. Sweat rolled down into my eyes. My stomach churned at this manifestation. This was not my father. I deeply wished he would put the mask back on. Cover his shame, return to his sane self. But I stared in shock as he looked down at the mask and crushed it beneath his foot. With one finger he pointed at me and sneered. “You will destroy yourself all for a pathetic action that will heal nothing! Vengeance never brings peace, it only invites war with open arms.”

A shower of pebbles rained down on me. I flung myself against the wall. Above me I saw the fleeting shadow of a figure. My heart thundered, thawing my blood. Heat roared into my limbs releasing them from the icy shock. 

Without a thought I darted down the path out of the quarry, up to the rise. The old pole barn stood across the field. Its door slightly open.

I held the pistol out in front of me, ready to fire. 

“At last.” … I would face the man who had shattered my world.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

__ **Chapter 25** _ _

__ **** _ _

__**~Charles~** _ _

 

Shafts of sunlight, filtered by the gaps in the boards, offered a dim view of the pole barn. Straw lined the floor. The musty scent of horse hung in the air even though none were present in the stalls. Most of the tack was missing. Cart ruts told of the missing implements. Everything was down at a work site, dedicated to finishing before the freezing winds drove work to a halt.

 

It seemed peaceful in here.

 

But I held the gun in front of me at the ready. Carefully, I stalked through the barn, peering into the stall only to find it empty. Had I deceived myself?

 

No. I was certain I had seen someone on the quarry edge above me. He had to be in here, there had been no other place he could have reached in time.

 

Standing perfectly still I listened in the stillness.

 

Breathing.

 

The subtle sound of his each breath gave him away. He was close now. Hiding behind the next wall.

 

There was no where he could possibly go, unless he broke through the wall boards. I had him. Finally, after four months of frantic searching I would confront the man who had orchestrated my father's murder! My blood pounded in my veins. I could taste the iron.

 

I leapt around the corner with the muzzle of the gun in the lead. Staring down the barrel I glared at, not a stranger, but a face I knew.

 

“Hello, Monsieur Daae.” Michael Perth grinned. He gripped a small pickax in his right hand.

 

“You!” The gun wavered in front of me, but I fought to keep it level.

 

He laughed and gave a bow. “Yes, just little old me.”

 

There was a hunger in those eyes, the deep hunger I remember seeing when he had glimpsed what I had brought to Daugherty and Arkwright's. But it didn't make sense. If he'd wanted Father's accounts, why kill him? He took a step toward me. I leveled the gun at the center of his chest. “I want some answers!”

 

“Oh,” he snickered, “I bet you do! I bet your daddy didn't tell you anything before … ” He pointed his finger like a gun and pretended to shoot. “Boom, hehe! Not even he suspected that.”

 

My hands trembled. “Why? Why did you do it? What did he ever do to you?” Never had I come across his name in Father's journals. How did this connect?

 

He stiffened for a moment before driving the point of the pickax into the old wood. It cracked and split under the force. “What did he do to _me_? Because of your father's reckless actions I grew up without mine!”

 

I forced myself to remain where I was. I gave him no ground as he pried the tool from where he had buried it. “Stay where you are! My father never had any business with a man named Perth.”

 

“Of course not!” He snapped. “Perth was my mother's maiden name. The name she went back to after she abandoned my ruined father. In doing so, she stripped me of Father's title, his family crest, the right to wear his signet ring.” He held up his hand and flexed the bare fingers before me. “Everything! Gone! And your father is to blame for it!”

 

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

 

The pickax trembled in his grasp. He stared at the sunlight reflecting off the sharp metal. “I didn't know. For so many years I had no idea who I truly could have been. Mother kept it a secret, raising me in flat she paid for with her own family's money. Meager, money. Paltry compared to the fortune she abandoned. But I always knew I was destined for more than just … toying with numbers. It was in my blood. I could feel it! Then, some years ago, I walked by the parlor when some men were visiting Grandfather Perth. Their whispers said it all. Father wasn't dead. Not dead at all. Just not … fit for society. They said he'd been poisoned, and never recovered.”

 

The unfocused gleam in his eyes disturbed me. My finger stroked the trigger of the gun as his words sunk in, slowly making connections with the past that I had read.

 

He continued, “All this time Mother had told me Father was dead. But he was only dead to her! Locked away as a dreadful secret so she could live free of the vile stigma. Father was there all this time. Locked in his cell, locked away quietly on the Ward's Island.”

 

I gulped, my finger nearly fired the gun. The name came to me. “Oh God, VanHollus!”

 

Michael Perth gave a toothy grin. His eyes focused on me as he clutched the pickax. “Yes. That's who I would have been! Except your father poisoned him. He was never the same again.”

 

“No!That's not right.” I almost lowered the gun in my haste to explain, but the moment he stepped forward I flung it back up. “VanHollus came to Father's mansion uninvited! It was your father who put the poison in my father's glass! The fault lies with yours.”

 

He drove the point of the ax into the floor and screamed, “Liar! Erik wanted to destroy my father! For years he had stolen land, contracts, even his reputation. This was all his fault.”

 

Sweat poured down my face. This man was clearly insane. I watched as he struggled to rip the ax back out of the floor. After he succeeded, he stumbled forward, his fingers twitching. Wide eyes failed to focus in the dying light. “My father,” I began slowly, fighting to remain calm, “only switched the glasses. Your father's anger drove him to the act. Mine only protected his life.”

 

“My father is a drooling mess lying in his own piss in an asylum! All I have done; in blackmailing the fool Snodgrass to challenge Erik, and hiring Black Dog to make sure he never left that knoll alive, was to prove my worth. To get my vengeance. And now I take your inheritance. You will hand over the accounts to me, or I will kill you.”

 

The muzzle wavered, his hands barely held the pickax. The more frantic he became, the more he lost his grip. “Black Dog betrayed you before he died.” It was all I could do, keep him talking.

 

Michael Perth snorted. “That piece of shit? Why am I not surprised? You get what you pay for and the man worked too cheap to be trustworthy. I didn't care. He was a dead shot. That's all I needed. A man who could hit a thin target and make him suffer. That was enough.”

 

Father suffered alright. Memories of that night flooded back. My finger tensed on the trigger again. One shot, maybe I would be lucky and he would drop. I wouldn't need a second. But I hesitated as he swayed. “You sacrificed two men to make sure my father died?”

 

He nodded. “Though Snodgrass was hardly a man. That idiot couldn't hide his dipping into the accounts like I could. When I caught him, it was the perfect chance to dangle the line. He either challenged your father. Or I ended his career.”

 

“He died. Black Dog shot him.”

 

“I know.” Michael smiled. “I couldn't rely on him keeping his mouth shut. So, I paid good money for a double hit. Now … we're going to go back to your house, that castle you live in, and you're going to hand me all your ledgers. Am I understood?”

 

“I'm the one holding the gun.” I glared at him. “I will do no such thing.”

 

“Yes, you will!” He held up the pickax and attempted to lunge at me. I slid out of the way. The moment the sunlight hit his eyes Michael dropped the ax and crumbled to his knees. He dissolved into giggles rocking back and forth as the light glittered in his eyes.

 

The muzzle of the gun lowered to my side. My God. This man was out of his mind. Shooting him would be like firing on a maimed animal. Carefully, I reached forward and snatched the pickax from his reach. He had order my father killed … but even in that move I was uncertain he had known what he was doing. Father had recorded well the night that VanHollus confronted him. The madness had infected him before he had even sipped from the poisoned glass. Like father … like son.

 

Caught in the light, Michael rocked himself and babbled nonsense. I grabbed a rope from the wall and tied his wrists tightly behind his back. He didn't even resist me.

 

Ruined, just like his father. I couldn't leave him here. The sound of horse hooves caught my attention. I glanced up to find Grimaudo opening the door. A look of shock on his face. “What's this?”

 

“A long story. I think I may need the assistance of your cart. Do you know any Perth's by chance?”

 

The foreman rubbed his neck with a dusty hand and nodded. “Did some work for a Lady Perth some time back while Master Erik was in Europe.” He eyed Michael, an unasked question clearly in his mind. “Think I saw him once or twice during that time. Why?”

 

“I need answers. Take us there, please.”

 

* * * * *

_**~Charles~** _

 

The building Grimaudo pulled up to was a charming brownstone. The entire cart ride back to the city, Michael Perth continued to mumble and laugh to himself. I rode alongside, making sure he didn't untie the knots that bound him to the cart railing. As I knocked on the front door, Grimaudo brought the delirious man, still in his bonds, beside me. At last the door opened and the butler's eyebrows rose immediately.

 

I was about to introduce myself when he held up a hand. “Wait here one moment, Sir.”

 

There was no chance for a reply. He promptly shut the door on me. Grimaudo held Perth's upper arm tightly and offered me an amused glance. “What do you suppose that was about?”

 

I shrugged. “Haven't got a clue.”

 

Not a moment later the door opened and a modestly dressed woman, close to Mother's age, peered out at the figure we had brought to her door. Distress shown in her eyes. Her hand flew up. For a moment I thought it was to strike me, but it came to her chest. She waved us into the house. “Come in, please.”

 

The butler closed the door behind us. I offered a bow and was about to introduce myself when the lady gestured for us to follow. We entered a cozy sitting room. She pointed to a chair in the corner. “Place him there, if you please.”

 

I nodded to the bewildered Grimaudo, he complied. No questions for us? We come to her door with a man tied up and there are no immediate questions? I half expected her to kneel before him and pull off the bonds.

 

But she didn't. Instead, she poured drinks for Grimaudo and me and offered them to us. The butler stood directly behind Perth's chair, watching him like a hawk.

 

Lady Perth broke the long silence. “I trust there is a reason he has been brought to me like this. Dare I ask what he has done?” Only then did I notice her hand was trembling.

 

I bowed my head. “Introductions are in order first. You know Grimaudo, and he is the one who told me he worked for you some years before.” She nodded in reply. “Then you must be Lady Perth. So we are not strangers, I am Monsieur Charles Daae. Your son and I have crossed paths through a grave misfortune.”

 

“Not grave.” Michael Perth spoke distantly. “Not grave at all. Wonderful. Fulfilling. Marvelous. But not grave. I have done it, Mother.”

 

Every eye in the room stared at him. Lady Perth cleared her throat before she flatly replied, “Answer me, Son. What have you done?”

 

He grinned, his wandering gaze found her in the room. “Mother … I avenged Father! I buried the man who destroyed him. And look, here is his heir to make amends.”

 

She blanched at his words. Stiffly she crossed the room to loom over him. “The only way you could avenge your father is to have taken his final breath from him, Michael. For he orchestrated his own downfall. I have told you as much. Surely you have not gone back to Ward's Island after I forbade it?”

 

“No.” He rocked back and forth in the chair. “No, I didn't.”

 

She heaved a sigh of relief.

 

He twisted in his bonds, discovering the ropes around his wrist for the first time. There was no sign of panic. He looked at it as if it were a puzzle, nothing more. “No, I found Monsieur Erik and made sure he died a slow and agonizing death. Just like he tried to do to Father.”

 

Grimaudo tensed. He wasn't the only one. I took three steps toward the man, nearly drawing the gun before realizing what I was doing.

 

She closed her eyes, and hung her head. “Oh Michael. What have you done?

 

“The right thing,” he muttered absently.

 

Lady Perth snapped her fingers and pointed upstairs. The butler took Michael Perth by his arm and escorted him out of the room.

 

We sat in silence as she recomposed herself. Setting the glass aside, she met my eyes with a somber gaze. “Monsieur Daae. I cannot apologize enough for my son's behavior. As you can see, he is not well. I had hoped for sometime now that, in leaving his father's name behind, he might somehow evade inheriting the family madness. But it appears that is not to be. Is it true? Did my son do as he said?”

 

I stared down into the ripples disturbing my brandy's surface. My voice would not come. I could only nod.

 

She nearly dropped her glass, only rescuing it at the last moment and placing it on the table. Her fingers gripped the folds of her gown. “Then, his freedom is now denied him. There is no other course of action. He will be joining his father on Ward's Island. I would irresponsible to do anything less.”

 

Her decree made me cringe. My God, to be locked up in that place. Shooting him would have been a mercy. And yet … the blood would have been on my hands. Father's words lingered in my mind, _where would it end?_ It wouldn't.

 

“How I had longed that Michael would escape that grim fate. I should have known. I had seen the same light in his eye that plagued his father.”

 

“Your husband?” I inquired, quietly.

 

“Ex-husband.” She sat up as tall as she could. “Immediately after the dinner party, where I watched that man proceed with his arrogant folly, I made arrangements for him to be committed to the asylum. I should have done it sooner, but it was far simpler for a woman to arrange for an infirmed man than one who could still pretend to be sane. I wasted little time in filling for the separation. It took work, but my father's title helped push it through. I returned to my maiden name and have refused to take another arranged marriage ever again. We have worked hard to bury the damage, including spreading the rumor that he died of the poison. It was far easier to have society believe me a widow. I wore black only as long as I needed to.”

 

I swirled the brandy. “Mother is still in black. It's only been four months.”

 

Lady Perth swallowed before she spoke. “I did not know Monsieur Erik, your father, very well. But what little time I had spent in his company, I held high regard for him. VanHollus wronged him. Had I been able to influence him, I would have put a stop to that bitter rivalry. And now … all these years … it comes to haunt us again. I am sorry. I can't bring your father back to you. All I can do is assure you that the reign of the VanHollus madness has come to an end. Michael will be confined here tonight. Tomorrow he will be on the first ferry out to Ward's Island. If you wish, you may come. I understand if you don't trust my word after the actions of my son.”

 

I shuddered. No. I didn't want to go anywhere near that place. “I … believe you.”

 

She rose from the chair and knelt in front of me. “Once more, I apologize for this. And I beg your discretion. Let me end this terrible chapter of our lives without society spreading on the vile whispers. Let us end this. I will find some way to make up what my son has taken from you.”

 

My hand embraced hers. For once, my thoughts had stilled. Instead of the wild swirl of the storm, everything settled and my mouth seemed to know what to say without my bidding. “I will not hold you to an impossible promise. There is nothing on this earth that can approach that value.”

 

Pure and simple, I knew in my heart. This was … over. In her eyes, I saw the pain of her son's betrayal. His fate was wretched. And with that strike it also condemned her to a life of separation from her child. I wondered who had it worse? Yes, Father had been murdered … but it had been by a man who's only inheritance was a legacy of madness.

 

She still knelt before me. Calmly, I stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. “God-willing, this is over.”

 

As I walked to the door with Grimaudo at my side, I heard her utter. “You are very gracious, Sir.”

 

A footman escorted us out into the night. Grimaudo climbed into the cart and eyed the house. “I remember those days. I was a but a boy working under Master Erik. VanHollus was a real cur of a man, even on the sites, we knew that he was trying to chip away at Erik's attempts to establish himself. That was the thing he could never stand. A man who had the gumption to toe the line and not back down. That man was Erik. I swore I heard VanHollus was dead.”

 

“He is.” I murmured. “The … remnant of him in the asylum isn't really there, Grimaudo. I can't say that Michael Perth's fate is a pleasant one.”

 

“At least he didn't drink rat poison.”

 

I had to nod. “True, but to be locked away for insanity. _Merde_ Grimaudo, I have seen inside the asylum. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.”

 

He took up the cart horses's reigns and sighed. “You're a better man than I. I still want to bash that little ass's brains out for murdering Master Erik.” With a wave, he drove the cart up the cobblestone road into the growing darkness.

 

I mounted Drifter and blindly headed south to the manor. Numbed by everything, I barely even noticed as I came around the corner of Central Park. A shadow stood before me. I tugged back on Drifter's reins. He paused shaking his head in clear disapproval.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed another figure on the rooftop. A woman dressed all in black outlined in the moonlight. Mother. The petals of a rose shimmered in her hand. She leaned over the balustrade and released the rose to the care of the winds.

 

In my path, the cloaked man lifted his masked face to me and smiled.

 

Father.

 

He bowed deeply. “I always knew you to be a better man than I. _Bravissmo_. It is finished.”

 

The cloak swirled as the wind picked up. Leaves spiraled in the street where only a moment before he had stood.

 

I smiled and looked up to the dark sky just as the third star winked into view.

 

__**~The End~** _ _

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE: This marks the end of an era for me. I confess I am quite misty-eyed. It feels unreal how long ago I wrote the first chapter of “Nightingale's Strain” which launched into this five book series.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to those who accompanied me on the entire journey. It's been an odyssey, on many fronts. In researching, in writing, in learning how to layout and edit a long series … and it's been worth every minute of it. None of this would be possible without the great works of Leroux and Susan Kay. In fact it is mainly thanks to Susan Kay's work of professional fanfiction that expanded Erik's life that spawned this. I bow to her and say “Bravissimo! Thank you for inspiring me to push things to the next level.” Because of how they both strove for time period accuracy, weaving in real historic events, and deep character psychology I felt compelled to approach it the same way. For now I bid you all adieu. As to whether I will go back and fill in with other shorter works, it remains to be seen. A worthy plot needs to present itself.


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